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ROTHSCHILD'S  FIDDLE  AND  OTHER  STORIES 


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ROTHSCHILD'S  FIDDLE 
AND  OTHER  STORIES 


THE    MODERN    LIBRARY 


PUBLISHERS  NEW  YORK 


The  publishers  take  pleasure  in  acknowledging  their  in 
debtedness  to  Frederick  A.  Stokes  &  Go.  for  permission  to 
reprint-  stories  from  their  "The  Kiss  and  Other  Stories,"and 
''The  Black  Monk  and  Other  Stories,"  translated  by  R.  E. 
C.  Long;  and  "The  Steppe  and  Other  Stories,"  translated 
by  Adeline  Lister  Kaye. 

Several  stories  in  this  volume  have  been  reprinted  from 
"The  Bet  and  Other  Tales,"  published  by  John  W.  Luce  & 
Co.,  Boston,  and  translated  by  S.  Koteliansky  and  J.  M. 
Murry. 


MANUFACTURED  IN  THE  UNITED  STATES  OF  AMERICA 
FOR  THE  MODERN  LIBRARY,  INC.,  BY  H.  WOLFF 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

ROTHSCHILD'S  FIDDLE    v   ..........  i 

LACIGALE  .  .  Af  f^.*-r/y^1~  ...  13 

THE  NAUGHTY  BOY    ...........  39 

THE  BLACK  MONK    ............  42 

ON  TRIAL    ......     .     ........  77 

EXPENSIVE  LESSONS      ...........  84 

THE  Kiss    .....     ..........  91 

A  GENTLEMAN  FRIEND      ..........  no 

A  TRIFLING  OCCURRENCE    ..........  114 

AFTER  THE  THEATRE     ...........  120 

OLD  AGE     .     .     .............  124 

THE  HOLLOW  ..............  130 

VlEROCHKA         ..............  175 

A  TIRESOME  STORY    ............  189 


795962 


ANTON  PAVLOVICH  CHEKHOV 

Chekhov  began  writing  in  1879.  In  January,  1904,  when 
Russia  celebrated  the  twenty-fifth  anniversary  of  this  event, 
he  sketched  the  following  brief  biography  of  himself  for  Tik- 
honov,  a  Russian  journalist: 

"I  was  born  at  Taganrog  in  the  year  1860.  In  1878  \ 
completed  my  studies  at  the  Taganrog  gymnasium.  In  1884 
I  completed  my  studies  at  the  University  of  Moscow  in  the 
faculty  of  medicine.  In  1888  I  gained  the  Pushkin  prize.  In 

1890  I  made  a  journey  to  Saghalin  and  back  by  sea.     In 

1891  I  made  a  tour  in  Europe,  where  I  drank  excellent  wine 
and  ate  oysters. 

"I  began  to  write  in  1879  in  The  Dragon-Fly .  My  most 
important  work  is  as  follows:  Motley  Tales,  Gloomy  People, 
and  the  story,  The  Duel.  I  have  transgressed  also  in  the  dra 
matic  line.  I  have  been  translated  into  all  languages  with 
the  exception  of  foreign  ones.  However,  I  have  long  since 
been  translated  by  the  Germans.  The  Czechs  and  Serbs  also 
approve  of  me.  Even  the  French  do  not  hold  aloof  from  a 
mutual  relationship. 

".  .  .  With  my  colleagues,  both  physicians  and  authors,  I 
maintain  excellent  relations.  I  am  unmarried.  I  should  like 
to  get  a  pension.  Medicine  is  my  occupation,  and  to  such  a 
degree,  in  fact,  that  some  time  during  the  year  I  perform  more 
forensic  medical  dissections  than  I  once  completed  in  two  of 
three  years.  Of  authors  I  prefer  Tolstoy  and  of  physicians 
Zakharin. 

"However,  all  this  is  rubbish.    You  write  what  suits  you. 


If  it  is  not  facfs,  then  replace  it  with  lyrical  matter.  .  .  ."* 
Chekhov  did  not  live  long  after  the  celebration  of  this  an 
niversary.     He  died  of  consumption  in  the  autumn  of  the 
same  year,  at  Badenweiler,  Germany. 

The  first  tales  of  Chekhov  were  written  under  the  pen- 
name  of  Chekhonte.  They  were  farcical  little  bits,  sometimes 
satirical  in  tone,  but  mostly  uproarious  jokes,  aiming  at 
nothing  in  particular  but  just  to  produce  laughter.  Later  his 
stories  became  more  serious,  deeply  tinged  with  pessimism, 
and  his  fun  turned  into  sad,  meaningful  humor. 

Although  Chekhov's  fame  rests  chiefly  upon  his  short  stor 
ies,  he  has  written  several  important  plays,  which  achieved 
great  success  on  the  Russian  stage.  His  most  important  con 
tribution  to  the  drama  is  The  Cherry  Garden. 


*  The  above  translation  is  from  the  introduction  by  P.  Selver 
to  The  Chameleon  and  Four  Other  Tales  [in  Russian],  by  Anton 
Chekhov,  London,  1916.  Kegan  Paul,  French,  Trubner  &  Co., 
Ltd. 


ROTHSCHILD'S   FIDDLE 


THE  town  was  small — no  better  than  a  village — and  it 
was  inhabited  almost  entirely  by  old  people  who  died  so 
seldom  that  it  was  positively  painful.  In  the  hospital,  and 
even  in  the  prison,  coffins  were  required  very  seldom.  In 
one  word,  business  was  bad.  If  Yakov  Ivanov  had  been 
coffin-maker  in  the  government  town,  he  would  probably 
have  owned  his  own  house/and  called  himself  Yakov  Mat- 
veyich;  but,  as  it  was,  he  was  known  only  by  the  name  of 
Yakov,  with  the  street  nickname  of  "Bronza"  given  for  some 
obscure  reason; sand  he  lived  as  poorly  as  a  simple  muzhik 
in  a  little,  ancient  cabin  with  only  one  room;  and  in  this 
room  lived  he,  Marfa,  the  stove,  a  double  bed,  the  coffins,  a 
joiner's  bench,  and  all  the  domestic  utensils. 

Yet  Yakov  made  admirable  coffins,  durable  and  good. 
For  muzhiks  and  petty  tradespeople  he  made  them  all  of 
one  size,  taking  himself  as  model;  and  this  method  never 
failed  him,  for  though  he  was  seventy  years  of  age,  there 
was  not  a  taller  or  stouter  man  in  the  town,  not  even  in  the 
prison.  For  women  and  for  men  of  good  birth  he  made  his 
coffins  to  measure,  using  for  this  purpose  an  iron  yardwand. 
Orders  for  children's  coffins  he  accepted  very  unwillingly, 
made  them  without  measurement,  as  if  in  contempt,  and 
every  time  when  paid  for  his  work  exclaimed: 

"Thanks.  But  I  confess  I  don't  care  much  for  wasting 
time  on  trifles." 

In  addition  to  coffin-making  Yakov  drew  a  small  income 
from  his  skill  with  the  fiddle.  -At  weddings  in  the  town 
there  usually  played  a  Jewish  orchestra,  the  conductor  of 
which  was  the  tinsmith  Moses  Ilyich  Shakhkes,  who  kept 
more  than  half  the  takings  for  himself.  As  Yakov  played 


2  ROTHSCHILD'S  FIDDLE 

very  well  upon  the  fiddle,  being  particularly  skillful  with 
Russian  songs,  Snakhkes  sometimes  employed  him  in  the 
orchestra,  paying  him  fifty  kopecks  a  day,  exclusive  of  gifts 
from  the  guests.  When  Brenza  sat  in  the  orchestra  he  per 
spired  and  his  face  grew  purple;  it  was  always  hot,  the  smell 
of  garlic  was  suffocating;  the  fiddle  whined,  at  his  right  ear 
snored  the  double-bass,  at  his  left  wept  the  flute,  played  by  a 
lanky,  red-haired  Jew  with  a  whole  network  of  red  and 
blue  veins  upon  his  face,  who  bore  the  same  surname  as 
the  famous  millionaire  Rothschild.  And  even  the  merriest 
tunes  this  accursed  Jew  managed  to  play  sadly.  Without 
any  tangible  cause  Yakov  had  become  slowly  penetrated  with 
hatred  and  contempt  for  Jews,  and  especially  for  Rothschild ; 
he  began  with  irritation,  then  swore  at  him,  and  once  even 
was  about  to  hit  him; /but  Rothschild  flared  up,  and,  look 
ing  at  him  furiously,  said: 

"If  it  were  not  that  I  respect  you  for  your  talents,  I 
should  send  you  flying  out  of  the  window." 

Then  he  began  to  cry>  So  Bronza  was  employed  in  the 
orchestra  very  seldom,  and  only  in  cases  of  extreme  need 
when  one  of  the  Jews  was  absent. 

Yakov  had  never  been  in  a  good  humour.  He  was  always 
overwhelmed  by  the  sense  of  the  losses  which  he  suffered. 
For  instance,  on  Sundays  and  saints'  days  it  was  a  sin  to 
work,  Monday  was  a  tiresome  day — and  so  on;  so  that 
in  one  way  or  another,  there  were  about  two  hundred  days 
in  the  year  when  he  was  compelled  to  sit  with  his  hands 
idle.  That  was  one  loss.  If  anyone  in  town  got 
married  without  music,  or  if  Shakhkes "  did  not  employ 
Yakov,  that  was  another  loss.  The  Inspector  of  Police 
was  ill  for  two  years,  and  Yakov  waited  with  impatience 
for  his  death,  yet  in  the  end  the  Inspector  transferred  himself 
to  the  government  town  for  the  purpose  of  treatment,  where 
he  got  worse  and  died.  There  was  another  loss,  a  loss  at 
the  very  least  of  ten  rubles,  as  the  Inspector's  coffin  would 
have  been  an  expensive  one  lined  with  brocade.  Regrets  for 
his  losses  generally  overtook  Yakov  at  night;  he  lay  in  bed 


ROTHSCHILD'S  FIDDLE  3 

with  the  fiddle  beside  him,  and,  with  his  head  full  of  such 
speculations,  would  take  the  bow,  the  fiddle  giving  out 
through  the  darkness  a  melancholy  sound  which  made 
Yakov  feel  better. 

On  the  sixth  of  May  last  year  Marfa  was  suddenly  taken 
ill.  She  breathed  heavily,  drank  much  water  and  staggered. 
Yet  next  morning  she  lighted  the  stove,  and  even  went  for 
water.  Towards  evening  she  lay  down.  All  day  Yakov 
had  played  on  the  fiddle,  and  when  it  grew  dark  he  took 
the  book  in  which  every  day  he  inscribed  his  losses,  and  from 
want  of  something  better  to  do,  began  to  add  them  up.  The 
total  amounted  to  more  than  a  thousand  rubles.  The 
thought  of  such  losses  so  horrified  him  that  he  threw  the 
book  on  the  floor  and  stamped  his  feet.(  Then  he  took  up 
the  book,  snapped  his  fingers,  and  sighed  heavily.  His 
face  was  purple,  and  wet  with  perspiration.  He  reflected 
that  if  this  thousand  rubles  had  been  lodged  in  the  bank 
the  interest  per  annum  would  have  amounted  to  at  least  forty 
rubles.  That  meant  that  the  forty  rubles  were  also  a  loss. 
In  one  word,  wherever  you  turn,  everywhere  you  meet 
with  loss,  and  profits  none. 

"Yakov,"  cried  Marfa  unexpectedly,  "I  am  dying." 

He  glanced  at  his  wife.  Her  face  was  red  from  fever 
and  unusually  clear  and  joyful;  and  Bronza,  who  was  accus 
tomed  to  see  her  pale,  timid,  and  unhappy-looking,  felt 
confused.  It  seemed  as  if  she  were  indeed  dying,  and  were 
happy  in  the  knowledge  that  she  was  leaving  for  ever  the 
cabin,  the  coffins,  and  Yakov.  And  now  she  looked  at 
the  ceiling  and  twitched  her  lips,  as  if  she  had  seen  Death 
her  deliverer,  and  were  whispering  with  him. 

Morning  came;  through  the  window  might  be  seen  the 
rising  of  the  sun.  Looking  at  his  old  wife,  Yakov  somehow 
remembered  that  all  his  life  he  had  never  treated  her  kindly, 
never  caressed  her,  never  pitied  her,  never  thought  of  buying 
her  a  kerchief  for  her  head,  never  carried  away  from  the 
weddings  a  piece  of  tasty  food,  but  only  roared  at  her,  abused 
her  for  his  losses,  and  rushed  at  her  with  shut  fists.  True, 


4  ROTHSCHILD'S  FIDDLE 

he  had  never  beaten  her,  but  he  had  often  frightened  her 
out  of  her  life  and  left  her  rooted  to  the  ground  with  terror. 
Yes,  and  he  had  forbidden  her  to  drink  tea,  as  the  losses 
without  that  were  great  enough;  so  she  drank  always  hot 
water.  And  now,  beginning  to  understand  why  she  had 
such  a  strange,  enraptured  face,  he  felt  uncomfortable. 

When  the  sun  had  risen  high  he  borrowed  a  cart  from  a 
neighbour,  and  brought  Mar  fa  to  the  hospital.  There  were 
not  many  patients  there,  and  he  had  to  wait  only  three 
hours.  [To  his  joy  he  was  received  not  by  the  doctor  but 
by  the  feldscher,  Maksim  Nikolai'ch,  an  old  man  of  whom 
it  was  said  that,  although  he  \yas  drunken  and  quarrelsome, 
he  knew  more  than  the  doctor.^ 

"May  your  health  be  good!*  said  Yakov,  leading  the  old 
woman  into  the  dispensary.  "Forgive  me,  Maksim  Niko 
lai'ch,  for  troubling  you  with  my  empty  affairs.  But  there, 
you  can  see  for  yourself  my  object  is  ill.  The  companion  of 
my  life,  as  they  say,  excuse  the  expression  ..." 

Contracting  his  grey  brows  and  smoothing  his  whiskers,  the 
feldscher  began  to  examine  the  old  woman,  who  sat  on  the 
tabouret,  bent,  skinny,  sharp-nosed,  and  with  open  mouth 
so  that  she  resembled  a  bird  that  is  about  to  drink. 

"So  .  .  ."  said  the  feldscher  slowly,  and  then  sighed. 
"Influenza  and  may  be  a  bit  of  a  fever.  There  is  typhus 
now  in  the  town  .  .  .  What  can  I  do?  She  is  an  old 
woman,  glory  be  to  God.  .  .  .  How  old?" 

"Sixty-nine  years,  Maksim  Nikolai'ch." 

"An  old  woman.     It's  high  time  for  her." 

"Of  course!  Your  remark  is  very  just,"  said  Yakov, 
smiling  out  of  politeness.  "And  I  am  sincerely  grateful  for 
your  kindness;  but  .allow  me  to  make  one  remark;  every 
insect  is  fond  of  life.') 

The  feldscher  replied  in  a  tone  which  implied  that  upon 
him  alone  depended  her  life  or  death.  "I  will  tell  you 
what  you'll  do,  friend;  put  on  her  head  a  cold  compress, 
and  give  her  these  powders  twice  a  day.  And  good-bye  to 
you." 


ROTHSCHILD'S  FIDDLE  5 

By  the  expression  of  the  feldscher's  face,  Yakov  saw 
that  it  was  a  bad  business,  and  that  no  powders  would  make 
it  any  better;  it  was  quite  plain  to  him  that  Marfa  was 
beyond  repair,  and  would  assuredly  die,  if  not  to-day  then 
to-morrow.  (He  touched  the  feldscher  on  the  arm,  blinked 
his  eyes,  and  said  in  a  whisper: 

"Yes,  Maksim  Nikolaich,  but  you  will  let  her  blood." 

"I  have  no  time,  no  time,  friend.  Take  your  old  woman, 
and  God  be  with  you!" 

"Do  me  this  one  kindness!"  implored  Yakov.  "You 
yourself  know  that  if  she  merely  had  her  stomach  out  or 
order,  or  some  internal  organ  wrong,  then  powders  and 
mixtures  would  cure;  but  she  has  caught  cold.  In  cases 
of  cold  the  first  thing  is  to  bleed  the  patient." 

But  the  feldscher  had  already  called  for  the  next  patient, 
and  into  the  dispensary  came  a  peasant  woman  with  a 
little  boy. 

"Be  off!"  he  said  to  Yakov,  with  a  frown. 

"At  least  try  the  effect  of  leeches.  I  will  pray  God 
eternally  for  you." 

The  feldscher  lost  his  temper,  and  roared: 

"Not  another  word." 

Yakov  also  lost  his  temper,  and  grew  purple  in  the  face; 
but  he  said  nothing  more  and  took  Marfa  under  his  arm 
and  led  her  out  of  the  room.  As  soon  as  he  had  got  her 
into  the  cart,  he  looked  angrily  and  contemptuously  at 
the  hospital  and  said: 

"What  an  artist!  He  will  let  the  blood  of  a  rich  man,  but 
for  a  poor  man  grudges  even  a  leech.  Herod ]$' 

When  they  arrived  home,  and  entered  the  cabin,  Marfa 
stood  for  a  moment  holding  on  to  the  stove.  She  was 
afraid  that  if  she  were  to  lie  down  Yakov  would  begin 
to  complain  about  his  losses,  and  abuse  her  for  lying  in 
bed  and  doing  no  work.  And  Yakov  looked  at  her  with 
tedium  in  his  soul  and  remembered  that  to-morrow  was 
John  the  Baptist,  and  the  day  after  Nikolay  the  Miracle- 
worker,  and  then  came  Sunday,  and  after  that  Monday— 


6  ROTHSCHILD'S  FIDDLE 

another  idle  day.  For  four  days  no  work  could  be  done, 
and  Marfa  would  be  sure  to  die  on  one  of  these  days.  Her 
coffin  must  be  made  to-day.  He  took  the  iron  yardwand, 
went  up  to  the  old  woman  and  took  her  measure.  After 
that  she  lay  down,  and  Yakov  crossed  himself,  and  began 
to  make  a  coffin. 

When  the  work  was  finished,  Bronza  put  on  his  spec 
tacles  and  wrote  in  his  book  of  losses: 

"Marfa  Ivanovna's  coffin — 2  rubles,  40  kopecks." 

And  he  sighed.  All  the  time  Marfa  had  lain  silently  with 
her  eyes  closed.  Towards  evening,  when  it  was  growing 
dark,  she  called  her  husband: 

"Rememberest,  Yakov?"  she  said,  looking  at  him  joy 
fully.  "Rememberest,  fifty  years  ago  God  gave  us  a  baby 
with  yellow  hair.  Thou  and  I  then  sat  every  day  by  the 
river  .  .  .  under  the  willow  .  .  .  and  sang  songs."  And 
laughing  bitterly  she  added:  "The  child  died." 

"That  is  all  imagination,"  said  Yakov. 

Later  on  came  the  priest,  administered  to  Marfa  the  Sac 
rament  and  extreme  unction.  Marfa  began  to  mutter  some 
thing  incomprehensible,  and  towards  morning,  died. 

The  old-women  neighbours  washed  her,  wrapped  her  in 
her  winding  sheet,  and  laid  her  out.  To  avoid  having  to 
pay  the  deacon's  fee,  Yakov  himself  read  the  psalms;  and 
escaped  a  fee  also  at  the  graveyard,  as  the  watchman  there 
was  his  godfather.  Four  peasants  carried  the  coffin  free, 
»ut  of  respect  for  the  deceased.  After  the  coffin  walked  a 
procession  of  old  women,  beggars,  and  two  cripples.  The 
peasants  on  the  road  crossed  themselves  piously.  And 
Yakov  was  very  satisfied  that  everything  passed  off  in 
honour,  order,  and  cheapness,  without  offence  to  anyone. 
When  saying  good-bye  for  the  last  time  to  Marfa,  he 
tapped  the  coffin  with  his  fingers,  and  thought  "An  excellent 
piece  of  work." 

But  while  he  was  returning  from  the  graveyard  he  was 
overcome  with  extreme  weariness.  He  felt  unwell,  he 
breathed  feverishly  and  heavily,  he  could  hardly  stand  on 


ROTHSCHILD'S  FIDDLE  7 

his  feet.  His  brain  was  full  of  unaccustomed  thoughts. 
He  remembered  again  that  he  had  never  taken  pity  on  Marfa  \ 
and  never  caressed  her.  The  fifty-two  years  during  which 
they  had  lived  in  the  same  cabin  stretched  back  to  eter 
nity,  yet  in  the  whole  of  that  eternity  he  had  never  thought 
of  her,  never  paid  any  attention  to  her,  but  treated  her  as 
if  she  were  a  cat  or  a  dog.  Yet  every  day  she  had  lighted 
the  stove,  boiled  and  baked,  fetched  water,  chopped  wood, 
slept  with  him  on  the  same  bed ;  and  when  he  returned  drunk 
from  weddings,  she  had  taken  his  fiddle  respectfully,  and 
hung  it  on  the  wall,  and  put  him  to  bed — all  this  silently 
with  a  timid,  worried  expression  on  her  face.  And  now  he 
felt  that  he  could  take  pity  on  her,  and  would  like  to  buy 
her  a  present,  but  it  was  too  late.  .  .  . 

Towards  Yakov,  smiling  and  bowing  came  Roth 
schild. 

"I  was  looking  for  you,  uncle,"  he  said.  "Moses  Ilyich 
sends  his  compliments,  and  asks  you  to  come  across  to  him 
at  once." 

xYakov  felt  inclined  to  cry. 

"Begone!"  he  shouted,  and  continued  his  path. 

"You  can't  mean  that,"  cried  Rothschild  in  alarm,  run 
ning  after  him.  "Moses  Ilyich  will  take  offence!  He  wants 
you  at  once." 

The  way  in  which  the  Jew  puffed  and  blinked,  and  the 
multitude  of  his  red  freckles  awoke  in  Yakov  disgust.  He 
felt  disgust,  too,  for  his  green  frock-coat,  with  its  black 
patches,  and  his  whole  fragile,  delicate  figure, 

"What  do  you  mean  by  coming  after  me,  garlic?"  he 
shouted.  "Keep  off!" 

The  Jew  also  grew  angry,  and  cried: 

"If  you  don't  take  care  to  be  a  little  politer  I  will  send 
you  flying  over  the  fence." 

"Out  of  my  sight!"  roared  Yakov,  rushing  on  him  with 
clenched  fists.  "Out  of  my  sight,  abortion,  or  I  will  beat 
the  soul  out  of  vour  cursed  body!  I  have  no  peace  with 
Jews." 


8  ROTHSCHILD'S  FIDDLE 

Rothschild  was  frozen  with  terror;  he  squatted  down  and 
waved  his  arms  above  his  head,  as  if  warding  off  blows,  and 
then  jumped  up  and  ran  for  his  life.  While  running  he 
hopped,  and  flourished  his  hands;  and  the  twitching  of  his 
long,  fleshless  spine  could  plainly  be  seen.  The  boys  in 
the  street  were  delighted  with  the  incident,  and  rushed  after 
him,  crying,  "Jew!  Jew!"  The  dogs  pursued  him  with  loud 
barks.  Someone  laughed,  then  someone  whistled,  and  the 
dogs  barked  louder  and  louder.  Then,  it  must  have  been, 
a  dog  bit  Rothschild,  for  there  rang  out  a  sickly,  despair 
ing  cry. 

Yakov  walked  past  the  common,  and  then  along  the  out 
skirts  of  the  town;  and  the  street  boys  cried,  "Bronza! 
Bronza!"  With  a  piping  note  snipe  flew  around  him,  and 
ducks  quacked.  The  sun  baked  everything,  and  from  the 
water  came  scintillations  so  bright  that  it  was  painful  to 
look  at.  Yakov  walked  along  the  path  by  the  side  of  the 
river<  and  watched  a  stout,  red-cheeked  lady  come  out  of 
the  bathing-place.  Not  far  from  the  bathing-place  sat  a 
group  of  boys  catching  crabs  with  meat;  and  seeing  him 
they  cried  maliciously,  "Bronza!  Bronza!"  And  at  this 
moment  before  him  rose  a  thick  old  willow  with  an  immense 
hollow  in  it,  and  on  it  a  raven's  nest.  .  .  .  And  suddenly  in 
Yakov's  mind  awoke  the  memory  of  the  child  with  the 
yellow  hair  of  whom  Marfa  had  spoken.  .  .  .  Yes,  it  was 
the  same  willow,  green,  silent,  sad.  .  .  .  How  it  had  aged, 
poor  thing! 

He  sat  underneath  it,  and  began  to  remember.  On  the 
other  bank,  where  was  now  a  flooded  meadow,  there  then 
stood  a  great  birch  forest,  and  farther  away,  where  the  now 
bare  hill  glimmered  on  the  horizon,  was  an  old  pine  wood. 
Up  and  down  the  river  went  barges.  But  now  everything 
was  flat  and  smooth;  on  the  opposite  bank  stood  only  a 
single  birch,  young  .and  shapely,  like  a  girl;  and  on  the 
river  were  only  ducks  and  geese  where  once  had  floated 
barges.  It  seemed  that  since  those  days  even  the  geese 
had  become  smaller.  Yakov  closed  his  eyes,  and  in  imagi- 


ROTHSCHILD'S  FIDDLE  9 

nation  saw  flying  toward  him  an  immense  flock  of  white 
geese. 

He  began  to  wonder  how  it  was  that  in  the  last  forty  or 
fifty  years  of  his  life  he  had  never  been  near  the  river,  or 
if  he  had,  had  never  noticed  it.  i  Yet  it  was  a  respectable 
river,  and  by  no  means  contemptible;  it  would  have  been 
possible  to  fish  in  it,  and  the  fish  might  have  been  sold  to- 
tradesmen,  officials,  and  the  attendant  at  the  railway  station 
buffet,  and  the  money  could  have  been  lodged  in  the  bank; 
he  might  have  used  it  for  rowing  from  country-house  to 
country-house  and  playing  on  the  fiddle,  and  everyone  would 
have  paid  him  money;  he  might  even  have  tried  to  act  as 
bargee — it  would  have  been  better  than  making  coffins;  he 
might  have  kept  geese,  killed  them  and  sent  them  to  Moscow 
in  the  winter-time — from  the  feathers  alone  he  would  have 
made  as  much  as  ten  rubles  a  year.  But  he  had  yawned 
away  his  life,  and  done  nothing.  What  losses!  Akh,  what 
losses!  and  if  he  had  done  all  together — caught  fish,  played 
on  the  fiddle,  acted  as  bargee,  and  kept  geese — what  a  sum 
he  would  have  amassed!  But  he  had  never  even  dreamed 
of  this*  life  had  passed  without  profits,  without  any  satis 
faction';  everything  had  passed  away  unnoticed;  before  him 
nothing  remained.  But  look  backward — nothing  but  losser, 
such  losses  that  to  think  of  them  it  makes  the  blood  run 
cold.  And  why  cannot  a  man  live  without  these  losses? 
Why  had  the  birch  wood  and  the  pine  forest  both  been  cut 
down?  Why  is  the  common  pasture  unused?  Why  do 
people  do  exactly  what  they  ought  not  to  do?  Why  did 
he  all  his  life  scream,  roar,  clench  his  fists,  insult  his  wife? 
For  what  imaginable  purpose  did  he  frighten  and  insult 
the  Jew?  Why,  indeed,  do  people  prevent  one  another  living 
in  peace?  All  these  are  also  losses!  Terrible  losses!  If 
it  were  not  for  hatred  and  malice  people  would  draw  from 
one  another  incalculable  profits. 

Evening  and  night,  twinkled  in  Yakov's  brain  the  willow, 
the  fish,  the  dead  geese,  Marfa  with  her  profile  like  that  of 
a  bird  about  to  drink,  the  pale,  pitiable  face  of  Rothschild 


io  ROTHSCHILD'S  FIDDLE 

and  an  army  of  snouts  thrusting  themselves  out  of  the  dark 
ness  and  muttering  about  losses.  He  shifted  from  side  to 
side,  and  five  times  in  the  night  rose  from  his  bed  and  played 
on  the  fiddle. 

In  the  morning  he  rose  with  an  effort  and  went  to  the 
hospital.  The  same  Maksim  Nikolaich  ordered  him  to  bind 
his  head  with  a  cold  compress,  and  gave  him  powders;  and 
by  the  expression  of  his  face,  and  by  his  tone  Yakov  saw 
that  it  was  a  bad  business,  and  that  no  powders  would  make 
it  any  better.  But  upon  his  way  home  he  reflected  that 
from  death  at  least  there  would  be  one  profit;  it  would 
no  longer  be  necessary  to  eat,  to  drink,  to  pay  taxes,  or  to 
injure  others;  and  as  a  man  lies  in  his  grave  not  one  year, 
but  hundreds  and  thousands  of  years,  the  profit  was  enor 
mous.  The  life  of  man  was,  in  short,  a  loss,  and  only  his 
death  a  profit.  Yet  this  consideration,  though  entirely 
just,  was  offensive  and  bitter;  for  why  in  this  world  is  it 
so  ordered  that  life,  which  is  given  to  a  man  only  once, 
passes  by  without  profit? 

He  did  not  regret  dying,  but  as  soon  as  he  arrived  home 
and  saw  his  fiddle,  his  heart  fell,  and  he  felt  sorry.  The 
fiddle  could  not  be  taken  to  the  grave;  it  must  remain  an 
orphan,  and  the  same  thing  would  happen  with  it  as  had 
happened  with  the  birchwood  and  the  pine  forest.  /Every 
thing  in  this  world  decayed,  and  would  decay!  Yakov 
went  to  the  door  of  the  hut  and  sat  upon  the  threshold- 
stone,  pressing  his  fiddle  to  his  shoulder.  Still  thinking  of 
life,  full  of  decay  and  full  of  losses,  he  began  to  play,  and 
as  the  tune  poured  out  plaintively  and  touchingly,  the  tears 
flowed  down  his  cheeks.  And  the  harder  he  thought,  the 
sadder  was  the  song  of  the  fiddle. 

.The  latch  creaked  twice,  and  in  the  wicket  door  appeared 
Rothschild.  The  first  half  of  the  yard  he  crossed  boldly, 
but  seeing  Yakov,  he  stopped  short,  shrivelled  up,  and 
apparently  from  fright  began  to  make  signs  as  if  he  wished 
>o  tell  the  time  with  his  fingers. 


ROTHSCHILD'S  FIDDLE  n 

f'Come  on,  don't  be  afraid,"  said  Yakov  kindly,  beckon 
ing  him.  "Come!", 

With  a  look  of  distrust  and  terror  Rothschild  drew  near 
and  stopped  about  two  yards  away. 

"Don't  beat  me,  Yakov,  it  is  not  my  fault!"  he  said, 
with  a  bow.  "Moses  Ilyich  has  sent  me  again.  'Don't  be 
afraid!'  he  said,  'go  to  Yakov  again  and  tell  him  that  with 
out  him  we  cannot  possibly  get  on.'  The  wedding  is  on 
Wednesday.  Shapovalov's  daughter  is  marrying  a  wealthy 
man.  ...  It  will  be  a  first-class  wedding,"  added  the  Jew, 
blinking  one  eye. 

"I  cannot  go,"  answered  Yakov,  breathing  heavily.  "I 
am  ill,  brother." 

And  again  he  took  his  bow,  and  the  tears  burst  from  his 
eyes  and  fell  upon  the  fiddle.  Rothschild  listened  atten 
tively,  standing  by  his  side  with  arms  folded  upon  his 
chest.  The  distrustful,  terrified  expression  upon  his  face 
little  by  little  changed  into  a  look  of  suffering  and  grief, 
he  rolled  his  eyes  as  if  in  an  ecstasy  of  torment,  and  ejacu 
lated  "Wachchch!"  And  the  tears  slowly  rolled  down  his 
cheeks  and  made  little  black  patches  on  his  green  frock- 
coat.^ 

All  day  long  Yakov  lay  in  bed  and  worried.  With  even 
ing  came  the  priest,  and,  confessing  him,  asked  whether 
he  had  any  particular  sin  which  he  would  like  to  confess; 
and  Yakov  exerted  his  fading  memory,  and  remembering 
Marfa's  unhappy  face,  and  the  Jew's  despairing  cry  when 
he  was  bitten  by  the  dog,  said  in  a  hardly  audible  voice: 

"Give  the  fiddle  to  Rothschild." 

And  now  in  the  town  everyone  asks:  Where  did  Roths 
child  get  such  an  excellent  fiddle?  Did  he  buy  it  or  steal 
it  ...  or  did  he  get  it  in  pledge?  Long  ago  he  aban 
doned  his  flute,  and  now  plays  on  the  fiddle  only.  From 
beneath  his  bow  issue  the  same  mournful  sounds  as  for 
merly  came  from  the  flute;  but  when  he  tries  to  repeat 
the  tune  that  Yakov  played  when  he  sat  on  the  threshold 


12  ROTHSCHILD'S  FIDDLE 

stone,  the  fiddle  emits  sounds  so  passionately  sad  and  full 
of  grief  that  the  listeners  weep;  and  he  himself  rolls  his 
eyes  and  ejaculates  "Wachchch!"  .  .  .  But  this  new  song 
so  pleases  everyone  in  the  town  that  wealthy  traders  and 
officials  never  fail  to  engage  Rothschild  for  their  social 
gatherings,  and  even  force  him  to  play  it  as  many  as  ten 
times. 


CIGALE 


TO  Olga  Ivanovna's  wedding  came  all  her  friends  and 
acquaintances. 

"Look  at  him!  Isn't  it  true  there  is  something  in  him?" 
she  said  to  them,  nodding  towards  her  husband,  as  if  to 
justify  her  marriage  to  this  simple,  commonplace,  in  no  way 
remarkable  man. 

The  bridegroom,  Osip  Stepanych  Dymov,  was  a  doctor, 
with  the  rank  of  Titular  Councillor.  He  worked  at  two 
hospitals;  in  one  as  supernumerary  ordinator;  as  dissector 
in  the  other.  At  one,  from  nine  in  the  morning  till  midday, 
he  received  out-patients  and  worked  in  the  wards;  and, 
finished  with  this,  he  took  a  tram  to  the  second  hospital, 
and  dissected  bodies.  His  private  practice  was  small,  worth 
some  five  hundred  rubles  a  year.  That  was  all.  What 
more  could  be  said  of  him?  On  the  other  hand,  Olga  Iva- 
novna,  her  friends  and  acquaintances,  were  by  no  means 
ordinary.  All  were  noted  for  something,  and  fairly  well 
known;  they  had  names;  they  were  celebrated,  or  if  not 
celebrated  yet,  they  inspired  great  hope  for  the  future.  A 
talented  actor,  clever,  modest,  a  fine  gentleman,  a  master 
of  declamation,  who  taught  Olga  Ivanovna  to  recite;  a 
good-humoured  opera-singer  who  told  Olga  Ivanovna  with  a 
sigh  that  she  was  throwing  herself  away — if  she  gave  up 
idling  and  took  herself  in  hand,  she  would  make  a  famous 
singer;  a  few  artists,  chief  of  them  the  genre-ist,  animal-, 
and  landscape-painter  Riabovsky,  handsome,  fair-haired, 
twenty-five,  successful  at  exhibitions  who  sold  his  last  pic- 

13 


14  ROTHSCHILD'S  FIDDLE 

ture  for  five  hundred  rubles — he  touched  up  Olga  Ivanovna's 
etudes,  and  predicted  a  future  for  her;  a  violoncellist,  whose 
instrument  wept,  who  frankly  said  that  of  all  the  women  he 
knew  Olga  Ivanovna  alone  could  accompany;  a  man  of 
letters,  young,  but  already  known  for  his  short  stories, 
sketches,  and  plays.  Who  else?  Yes,  Vasily  Vasilych,  coun 
try  gentleman,  dilettante  illustrator  and  vignettist,  with  his 
love  of  the  national  epos  and  his  passion  for  old  Russian  art 
— on  paper,  china,  and  smoked  plates  he  turned  out  veritable 
masterpieces.  In  such  society — artistic,  free,  and  spoiled  by 
fate;  and  (though  delicate  and  modest)  oblivious  of  doctors 
save  when  ill;  to  whom  "Dymov"  sounded  as  impersonal  as 
"Tarasov"  or  "Sidorov" — in  such  society,  the  bridegroom 
seemed  out-of-place,  needless,  and  even  insignificant,  al 
though  he  was  really  a  very  tall  and  very  broad-shouldered 
man.  His  evening  dress  seemed  made  for  some  one  else. 
His  beard  was  like  a  shopman's.  Though  it  is  true  that  had 
he  been  a  writer  or  artist,  this  beard  would  have  reminded 
them  of  Zola. 

The  artist  told  Olga  Ivanovna  that  with  her  flaxen  hair 
and  wedding  dress  she  was  a  graceful  cherry-tree  covered 
with  tender,  white  blossoms  in  spring, 

"No,  but  listen!"  replied  Olga  Ivanovna,  seizing  his  hand. 
"How  suddenly  all  this  happened!  Listen,  listen!  ...  I 
should  tell  you  that  Dymov  and  my  father  were  at  the  same 
hospital.  While  my  poor  father  was  ill,  Dymov  watched  day 
and  night  at  his  bedside.  Such  self-sacrifice!  Listen, 
Riabovsky!  .  .  .  And  you,  writer,  listen — this  is  very  in 
teresting!  Come  nearer!  Such  sacrifice  of  self,  such  sincere 
concern!  I  myself  could  not  sleep  at  night,  and  sat  at  my 
father's  bedside,  and  suddenly!  ...  I  captivated  the  poor 
young  man'  My  Dymov  was  up  to  his  neck  in  love!  In 
truth,  things  happen  strangely.  Well,  after  my  father's 
death  we  sometimes  met  in  the  street;  he  paid  me  occasional 
visits,  and  one  fine  evening  suddenly — he  proposed  to 
me!  ...  I  cried  all  night,  and  myself  fell  in  love  with  him. 
And  now,  you  see,  I  am  married.  Don't  you  think  there  is 


LA  CIGALE  15 

something  in  him?  Something  strong,  mighty,  leonine! 
Just  now  his  face  is  turned  three-quarters  from  us  and  the 
light  is  bad,  but  when  he  turns  round  just  look  at  his  fore 
head!  Riabovsky,  what  do  you  think  of  his  forehead? 
Dymov,  we  are  speaking  of  you."  She  turned  to  her  hus 
band.  "Come  here!  Give  your  honest  hand  to  Riabov 
sky.  .  .  .  That's  right.  Be  friends!" 

With  a  simple,  kindly  smile,  Dymov  gave  his  hand  to  the 
artist,  and  said — 

"I'm  delighted!  There  was  a  Riabovsky  at  college  with 
me.  Was  he  a  relation  of  yours?" 

II 

Olga  Ivanovna  was  twenty-two  years  old,  Dymov  thirty- 
one.  After  the  marriage  they  lived  well.  Olga  Ivanovna 
hung  the  drawing-room  with  drawings,  her  own  and  her 
friends',  framed  and  unframed;  and  about  the  piano  and 
furniture,  arranged  in  pretty  confusion  Chinese  parasols, 
easels,  many-coloured  draperies,  poniards,  busts,  photographs. 
The  dining-room  she  decked  with  the  bright-coloured  oleo 
graphs  beloved  by  peasants,  bast-shoes  and  sickles,  and  these, 
with  the  scythe  and  hay-rake  in  the  corner,  made  a  room  in 
national  style.  To  make  her  bedroom  like  a  cave,  she  draped 
the  ceiling  and  walls  with  dark  cloth,  hung  a  Venetian  lan 
tern  over  the  bed,  and  set  near  the  door  a  figure  with  a  hal 
berd.  And  every  one  agreed  that  the  young  couple  had 
a  charming  flat. 

Rising  every  day  at  eleven,  Olga  Ivanovna  sat  at  the 
piano,  or,  if  the  sun  shone,  painted  in  oils.  At  one  o'clock  she 
drove  to  her  dressmaker's.  As  neither  she  nor  Dymov  was 
rich,  many  ingenious  shifts  were  resorted  to  to  keep  her  in 
the  new-looking  dresses  which  made  such  an  impression  on 
all.  Pieces  of  old  dyed  cloth;  worthless  patches  of  tulle, 
lace,  plush,  and  silk,  came  back  from  the  dressmaker  miracles, 
not  dresses  but  ravishing  dreams.  Done  with  the  dress 
maker,  Olga  Ivanovna  drove  to  some  actress  friend  to  learn 


1 6  ROTHSCHILD'S  FIDDLE 

theatrical  news  and  get  tickets  for  first-nights  or  benefits; 
thence  to  an  artist's  studio  or  picture  gallery,  ending  up 
with  some  other  celebrity  whom  she  invited  to  visit  her,  or 
simply  gossiped  to.  And  those  whom  she  counted  celebrities 
and  great  men  received  her  as  an  equal,  and  told  her  in  one 
voice  that  if  she  did  not  throw  away  her  opportunities,  her 
talents,  taste,  and  intellect  would  yield  something  really 
great.  She  sang,  played,  painted,  modelled,  acted  in  amateur 
theatricals;  and  did  everything  well:  if  she  merely  made 
lanterns  for  illuminations,  or  dressed  herself  up,  or  tied  some 
one's  necktie,  the  result  was  invariably  graceful,  artistic, 
charming.  But  none  of  her  talents  outshone  her  skill  in 
meeting  and  getting  on  terms  of  intimacy  with  men  of  note. 
Let  a  man  get  the  least  reputation,  or  even  be  talked  about, 
and  in  a  single  day  she  had  met  him,  established  friendly 
relations,  and  invited  him  to  her  home.  And  each  new 
acquaintance  was  a  festival  in  himself.  She  worshipped  the 
well-known,  was  proud  of  them,  and  dreamed  of  them  all 
night.  Her  thirst  was  insatiable.  The  old  celebrities  de 
parted  and  were  forgotten,  and  new  celebrities  replaced  them ; 
and  to  these  last  she  grew  accustomed  in  time ;  they  lost  their 
charm,  so  that  she  sought  for  more. 

She  dined  at  home  with  her  husband  at  five  o'clock.  She 
was  in  ecstasies  over  his  simplicity,  common  sense,  and 
good  humour.  She  jumped  up  from  her  chair,  embraced  his 
head,  and  covered  it  with  kisses. 

"You  are  a  clever,  a  noble  man,  Dymov!"  she  exclaimed. 
"You  have  only  one  drawback.  You  take  no  interest  in 
art.  You  deny  music  and  painting." 

"I  don't  understand  them,"  he  answered  kindly.  "All 
my  life  I  have  studied  only  science  and  medicine.  I  have 
no  time  fcr  art." 

"But  that  is  awful,  Dymov!" 

"Why  awful?  Your  friends  know  nothing  of  science  or 
medicine,  yet  you  don't  blame  them  for  that.  To  each  man 
his  own!  I  don't  understand  landscapes  or  operas,  but  I 
look  at  the  matter  thus:  if  talented  men  devote  their  lives 


LA  CIGALE  17 

to  such  things,  and  clever  men  pay  vast  sums  for  them,  that 
means  they  are  useful.  I  don't  understand  them,  but  not 
to  understand  does  not  mean  to  deny." 

"Give  me  your  hand!     Let  me  press  your  honest  hand!" 

After  dinner  Olga  Ivanovna  drove  away  to  her  friends;' 
after  that  followed  theatres  or  concerts.  She  returned  after 
midnight.  And  so  every  day. 

On  Wednesdays  she  gave  evening  parties.  There  were 
no  cards  and  no  dancing.  Hostess  and  guests  devoted  them 
selves  to  art.  The  actor  recited,  the  singer  sang,  artists 
sketched  in  Olga  Ivanovna's  numberless  albums;  the  hostess 
painted,  modelled,  accompanied,  and  sang.  In  the  pauses 
between  these  recreations,  they  talked  of  books,  the  theatre, 
and  art.  No  women  were  present,  because  Olga  Ivanovna 
considered  all  women,  except  actresses  and  dressmakers,  tire 
some  and  contemptible.  When  the  hall  bell  rang  the  hostess 
started,  and  exclaimed  triumphantly,  ''It's  he!"  meaning 
i  thereby  some  newly  met  celebrity.  Dymov  kept  out  of  sight, 
and  few  remembered  his  existence.  But  at  half-past  eleven 
the  dining-room  door  flew  open,  and  Dymov  appeared  with 
C.  kindly  smile,  rubbing  his  hands,  and  said — 

"Come,  gentlemen,  to  supper!" 

Whereupon  all  thronged  to  the  dining-room,  and  each  time 
found  awaiting  them  the  same  things:  a  dish  of  oysters,  a 
joint  of  ham  or  veal,  sardines,  cheese,  caviare,  mushrooms, 
vodka,  and  two  decanters  of  wine. 

"My  dear  maitre  d' hotel!"  cried  Olga  Ivanovna,  waving 
fter  hands  ecstatically.  "You  are  simply  adorable!  Gentle 
men,  look  at  his  forehead!  Dymov,  show  us  your  profile. 
Look  at  him,  gentlemen:  it  is  the  face  of  a  Bengal  tiger  with 
an  expression  as  kind  and  good  as  a  deer's.  My  sweet 
heart!" 

And  the  guests  ate  steadily  and  looked  at  Dymov.  But 
soon  they  forgot  his  presence,  and  returned  to  theatre,  music, 
and  art. 

The  young  couple  were  nappy.  Their  life,  it  seemed, 
flowed  as  smoothly  as  oil.  But  the  third  week  of  the  honey- 


1 8  ROTHSCHILD'S  FIDDLE 

moon  was  crossed  by  a  cloud.  Dymov  got  erysipelas  at  the 
hospital,  and  his  fine  black  hair  was  cut  off.  Olga  Ivanovna 
sat  with  him  and  cried  bitterly,  but  when  he  got  better  she 
bound  a  white  handkerchief  around  his  head  and  sketched 
him  as  a  Bedouin.  And  both  were  happy.  Three  days  after 
he  had  returned  to  hospital  a  second  misfortune  occurred. 

<;I  am  in  bad  luck,  mama!"  he  said  at  dinner.  "To-day  I 
had  four  dissections,  and  I  cut  two  fingers.  I  noticed  it 
only  just  now." 

Olga  Ivanovna  was  frightened.  But  Dymov  smiled,  dis 
missed  the  accident  as  a  trifle,  and  said  that  he  cut  himself 
often. 

"I  am  carried  away  by  my  work,  mama,  and  forget  what 
I'm  about." 

Olga  Ivanovna  dreaded  blood-poisoning,  and  at  night 
prayed  to  God.  But  no  consequences  followed,  and  life, 
serene  and  happy,  flowed  without  trouble  or  alarm.  The 
present  was  all  delight,  and  behind  it  came  spring — spring 
already  near,  beaming  and  beckoning,  with  a  thousand  joys. 
Pleasures  it  promised  without  end.  In  April,  May,  and 
June  a  villa  far  from  town,  with  walks,  fishing,  studies,  night 
ingales.  From  June  till  autumn  the  artists'  tour  on  the 
Volga,  and  in  this  tour,  as  member  of  the  Artists'  Associa 
tion,  Olga  Ivanovna  would  take  part.  She  had  already 
ordered  two  expensive  dresses  of  gingham,  and  laid  in  a 
stock  of  colours,  brushes,  canvas,  and  a  new  palette.  Almost 
every  day  came  Riabovsky  to  watch  her  progress  in  painting. 
When  she  showed  him  her  work  he  thrust  his  hands  deep  in 
his  pockets,  compressed  tightly  his  lips,  grunted,  and  said — 

"So!  .  .  .  This  cloud  of  yours  glares;  the  light  is  not 
right  for  evening.  The  foreground  is  somehow  chewed  up, 
and  there  is  something,  you  understand.  .  .  .  And  the  cabin 
is  somehow  crushed  .  .  .  you  should  make  that  corner  a 
little  darker.  But  on  the  whole  it's  not  bad.  ...  I  can 
praise  it." 

And  the  less  intelligibly  he  spoke  the  better  Olga  Ivanovna 
understood. 


LA  CIGALE  19 


III 

After  dinner,  on  the  second  day  of  Trinity  week,  Dymov 
bought  some  hors  d'ceuvres  and  sweets  and  took  train  for 
his  villa  in  the  country.  Two  whole  weeks  he  had  not  seen 
his  wife,  and  he  longed  to  be  with  her  again.  During  the 
journey  and  afterwards,  as  he  searched  for  the  villa  in  a  big 
wood,  he  felt  hungry  and  fatigued,  and  rejoiced  at  the 
thought  of  supping  in  freedom  with  his  wife  and  having  a 
sound  sleep.  So,  looking  at  his  parcel  of  caviare,  cheese,  and 
white-fish,  he  felt  happy. 

Before  he  found  the  villa  the  sun  had  begun  to  set.  The 
old  servant  said  that  her  mistress  was  not  at  home,  but 
that  she  would  soon  return.  The  villa,  a  very  ugly  villa, 
with  low  ceilings,  papered  with  writing-paper,  and  uneven, 
chinky  floors,  contained  only  three  rooms.  In  one  was  a 
bed,  in  another  canvas,  brushes,  dirty  paper,  and  men's 
clothes  and  hats  scattered  on  chairs  and  window-sills;  and 
in  the  third  Dymov  found  three  strangers,  two  dark  and 
bearded,  the  third — evidently  an  actor — clean-shaven  and 
stout. 

"What  do  you  want?"  asked  the  actor  in  a  bass  voice, 
looking  at  Dymov  shyly.  "You  want  Olga  Ivanovna?  Wait; 
she'll  be  back  shortly." 

Dymov  sat  down  and  waited.  One  of  the  dark  men, 
looking  at  him  drowsily  and  lazily,  poured  tea  into  his  glass 
and  asked — 

"Would  you  like  some  tea?" 

Dymov  wanted  both  to  eat  and  drink,  but,  fearing  to 
spoil  his  appetite,  he  refused  the  tea.  Soon  afterwards  came 
footsteps  and  a  familiar  laugh;  the  door  flew  open,  and  in 
came  Olga  Ivanovna  wearing  a  big  hat.  On  her  arm  hung  a 
basket,  and  behind  her,  with  a  big  parasol  and  a  deck-chair, 
came  merry,  rosy-cheeked  Riabovsky. 

"Dymov!"  cried  Olga  Ivanovna,  radiant  with  joy.  "Dy 
mov!"  she  repeated,  laying  her  head  and  both  hands  on  fiis 


20  ROTHSCHILD'S  FIDDLE 

shoulder.  "It  is  you?  Why  did  you  not  come  sooner? 
Why?  Why?" 

"I  couldn't,  mama!  I  am  always  busy,  and  when  I  end 
my  work  there's  generally  no  train." 

"How  glad  I  am  you've  come!  I  dreamed  of  you  all, 
all  last  night.  Akh,  if  you  knew  how  I  love  you — and  how 
opportunely  you've  come!  You  are  my  saviour!  To-morrow 
we  have  a  most  original  wedding."  She  laughed  and  re- tied 
her  husband's  tie.  "A  young  telegraphist  at  the  station,  a 
certain  Chikeldeyev,  is  going  to  be  married.  A  handsome 
boy,  not  at  all  stupid;  in  his  face,  you  know,  there's  some 
thing  strong,  bearish.  .  .  .  He'd  sit  admirably  as  model  for 
a  Varangian.  We  are  all  interested  in  him,  and  promised  to 
come  to  the  wedding.  ...  He  is  a  poor  man,  solitary  and 
shy,  and  it  would  be  a  sin  to  refuse.  Imagine!  .  .  .  after 
church  there'll  be  the  wedding,  then  all  go  to  the  bride's 
house  .  .  .  you  understand  ...  the  woods,  the  birds'  songs, 
sun-spots  on  the  grass,  and  we  ourselves — variegated  spots 
on  a  bright  green  background.  .  .  .  Most  original,  quite  in 
the  style  of  the  French  impressionists!  But  what  am  I  to 
wear,  Dymov?  I  have  nothing  here,  literally  nothing.  .  .  . 
No  dress,  no  flowers,  no  gloves!  .  .  .  You  must  save  me. 
Your  arrival  means  that  fate  is  on  my  side.  Here  are  the 
keys,  sweetheart!  take  the  train  home  and  bring  my  rose- 
coloured  dress  from  the  wardrobe.  You  know  it;  it's  the  first 
you'll  see.  Then  in  the  chest  of  drawers — the  bottom  right- 
hand  drawer — you'll  find  two  boxes.  At  the  top  there's  only 
tulle  and  other  rags,  but  underneath  you'll  find  flowers. 
Bring  all  the  flowers — carefully!  I  don't  know  .  .  .  then  I'll 
choose.  .  .  .  And  buy  me  some  gloves." 

"All  right,"  said  Dymov.    "I'll  get  them  to-morrow!" 

"How  to-morrow?"  asked  Olga  Ivanovna,  looking  at  him 
with  surprise.  "You  can't  do  it  to-morrow.  The  first  train 
leaves  at  nine,  and  the  wedding  is  at  eleven.  No,  dear;  go 
to-night!  If  you  can't  get  back  yourself  to-morrow  send  a 
messenger.  The  train  is  nearly  due.  Don't  miss  it,  my 
soul!" 


LA  CIGALE  21 

"All  right!" 

"Akh,  how  sorry  I  am  to  have  to  send  you!"  she  said,  and 
tears  came  into  her  eyes.  "Why  did  I  promise  the  telegraph 
clerk,  like  a  fool!" 

Dymov  hastily  gulped  down  a  glass  of  tea,  and,  still  smil 
ing  kindly,  returned  to  the  station.  And  the  caviare,  the 
cheese,  and  the  white-fish  were  eaten  by  the  actor  and  the 
two  dark  men. 

IV 

It  was  a  still  moonlight  night  of  July.  Olga  Ivanovna 
stood  on  the  deck  of  a  Volga  steamer  and  looked  now  at  the 
river,  now  at  its  beautiful  banks.  Beside  her  stood  Riabov- 
sky,  and  affirmed  that  the  black  shadows  on  the  water  were 
not  shadows  but  a  dream;  that  this  magic  stream  with  its 
fantastic  shimmer,  this  unfathomable  sky,  these  mournful 
banks — which  expressed  but  the  vanity  of  life,  and  the  ex 
istence  of  something  higher,  something  eternal,  something 
blessed — called  to  us  to  forget  ourselves,  to  die,  to  fade 
into  memories.  The  past  was  trivial  and  tedious,  the  future 
insignificant;  and  this  magic  night,  this  one  night  of  life, 
would  soon  be  past,  would  have  hurried  into  eternity.  Why, 
then,  live? 

And  Olga  Ivanovna  listened,  first  to  Riabovsky's  voice, 
then  to  the  midnight  silence,  and  thought  that  she  was  im 
mortal,  and  would  never  die.  The  river's  turquoise  hue, 
a  hue  she  had  never  seen  before,  the  sky,  the  banks,  the 
black  shadows,  and  the  irresponsible  joy  which  filled  her 
heart,  all  whispered  to  her  that  she  would  become  a  great 
artist,  that  somewhere  far  away,  beyond  these  distances, 
beyond  the  moonlight  night,  somewhere  in  infinite  space 
there  awaited  success  and  glory,  and  the  love  of  the  world. 
When  she  looked  earnestly  into  the  distance,  she  saw  crowds, 
lights;  she  heard  solemn  music  and  cries  of  rapture;  she 
saw  herself  in  a  white  dress  surrounded  by  flowers  cast  at 
her  from  all  sides.  And  she  believed  that  here  beside  her, 


22  ROTHSCHILD'S  FIDDLE 

leaning  on  the  bulwark,  stood  a  really  great  man,  a  geniu; 
the  elected  of  God.  He  had  already  accomplished  thing 
beautiful,  new,  uncommon;  what  he  would  do  when  tim 
had  ripened  his  great  talents  would  be  greater  immeasurabl 
,  — that  was  written  legibly  in  his  face,  his  expressions,  hi 
Nations  to  the  world  around.  Of  the  shadows,  the  hues  c 
nights,  the  moonlight,  he  spoke  in  language  all  his  own,  an 
unconsciously  betrayed  the  power  of  his  magic  mastery  ovf 
Nature.  He  was  handsome  and  original;  and  his  life,  ur 
hampered,  free,  alien  to  the  trifles  of  the  world,  seemed  th 
life  of  a  bird. 

"It  is  getting  cold!"  said  Olga  Ivanovna,  shuddering. 

Riabovsky  wrapped  her  in  his  cloak  and  said  mourr 
fully— 

"I  feel  myself  in  your  power.  I  am  a  slave.  Why  ai 
you  so  ravishing  to-night?" 

He  looked  at  her  steadily,  and  his  eyes  were  so  terribl 
that  she  feared  to  look  at  him. 

"I  love  you  madly  .  .  ."he  whispered,  breathing  again: 
her  cheek.  "Say  to  me  but  one  word,  and  I  will  not  live  .  . 
I  will  abandon  my  art.  .  .  ."  He  stammered  in  his  e: 
treme  agitation.  "Love  me,  IOTC.  .  .  ." 

"Don't  speak  in  that  way!"  said  Olga  Ivanovna,  closin 
her  eyes.  "It  is  terrible.  And  Dymov?" 

"What  is  Dymov?  Why  Dymov?  What  have  I  to  d 
with  Dymov?  The  Volga,  the  moon,  beauty,  my  love,  m 
raptures  .  .  .  and  no  Dymov  at  all !  .  .  .  Akh,  I  know  notl 
Ing.  ...  I  do  not  want  the  past;  give  me  but  one  m< 
ment  .  .  .  one  second!" 

Olga  Ivanovna's  heart  beat  quickly.  She  tried  to  think  < 
her  husband ;  but  her  whole  past,  her  marriage,  Dymov,  eve 
the  evening  parties  seemed  to  her  trivial,  contemptible,  dul 
needless,  and  remote.  .  .  .  And,  indeed,  who  was  Dymo\ 
Why  Dymov?  What  had  she  to  do  with  Dymov?  Did  I 
exist  really  in  Nature;  was  he  only  a  dream? 

"He  has  had  more  happiness  than  he  could  expect,  a  sin 
pie  and  ordinary  man,"  she  thought,  closing  her  eyes.  "Li 


LA  CIGALE  23 

them  condemn  me,  let  them  curse  me;  but  I  will  take  all 
and  perish,  take  all  and  perish.  .  .  .  We  must  experience 
everything  in  life.  .  .  .  Lord,  how  painful  and  how  good!" 

"Well,  what?  What?"  stammered  the  artist,  embracing 
her.  He  kissed  her  hands  greedily,  while  she  strove  to  with 
draw  them.  "You  love  me?  Yes?  Yes?  O  what  a  night! 
O  night  divine!" 

"Yes,  what  a  night!"  she  whispered,  looking  into  his  cyef 
which  glittered  with  tears.  Then  she  looked  around  her, 
clasped  her  arms  about  him,  and  kissed  him  firmly  on  th<? 
lips. 

"We  are  near  Kineshma,"  said  a  voice  somewhere  across 
the  deck. 

Heavy  footfalls  echoed  behind  them.  A  waiter  passed 
from  the  buffet. 

"Waiter!"  cried  Olga  Ivanovna,  laughing  and  crying  in 
her  joy.  "Bring  us  some  wine." 

Pale  with  excitement,  the  artist  sat  on  a  bench,  and  stared 
at  Olga  Ivanovna  with  grateful,  adoring  eyes.  But  in  a 
moment  he  shut  these  eyes,  and  said  with  a  weary  smile — 

"I  am  tired." 

And  he  leaned  his  head  against  the  bulwark. 


V 

The  second  of  September  was  warm  and  windless  but  dull. 
Since  early  morning  a  light  mist  had  wandered  across  the 
Volga,  and  at  nine  o'clock  it  began  to  rain.  There  was  no 
hope  of  a  clear  sky.  At  breakfast  Riabovsky  told  Olga 
Ivanovna  that  painting  was  the  most  thankless  and  tedious 
of  arts,  that  he  was  no  artist,  and  that  only  fools  thought 
him  talented.  Then,  for  no  cause  whatever,  he  seized  a 
knife  and  cut  to  pieces  his  best  study.  After  breakfast,  in 
bad  humour,  he  sat  at  a  window  and  looked  at  the  river, 
and  found  it  without  life — dull,  dead,  and  cold.  All  around 
spoke  of  frowning  autumn's  approach.  It  seemed  already 


24  ROTHSCHILD'S  FIDDLE 

that  the  green  carpet  on  the  banks,  the  diamond  flashes  from 
the  water,  the  clear  blue  distances — all  the  vanity  and 
parade  of  Nature  had  been  taken  from  the  Volga  and  packed 
in  a  box  until  the  coming  spring;  and  that  the  ravens  flying 
over  the  river  mocked  it  and  cried,  "Naked!  Naked!" 
Riabovsky  listened  to  their  cry,  and  brooded  on  the  ex 
haustion  and  loss  of  his  talent:  and  he  thought  that  all  the 
world  was  conditional,  relative,  and  stupid,  and  that  he 
should  not  have  tied  himself  up  with  this  woman.  In  one 
word  he  was  out  of  spirits,  and  sulked. 

On  her  bed  behind  the  partition,  pulling  at  her  pretty 
hair,  sat  Olga  Ivanovna;  and  pictured  herself  at  home,  first 
in  the  drawing-room,  then  in  her  bedroom,  then  in  her  hus 
band's  study;  imagination  bore  her  to  theatres,  to  her  dress 
maker,  to  her  friends.  What  was  Dymov  doing  now? 
Did  he  think  of  her?  The  season  had  already  begun;  it 
was  time  to  think  of  the  evening  parties.  And  Dymov? 
Dear  Dymov!  How  kindly,  with  what  infantile  complaints, 
he  begged  her  in  his  letters  to  come  home!  Every  month 
he  sent  her  seventy-five  rubles,  and  when  she  wrote  that 
she  had  borrowed  a  hundred  from  the  artists  he  sent  her 
also  that  hundred.  The  good,  the  generous  man!  Olga 
Ivanovna  was  tired  of  the  tour;  she  suffered  from  tedium, 
and  wished  to  escape  as  soon  as  possible  from  the  muzhiks, 
from  the  river  damp,  from  the  feeling  of  physical  uncleanli- 
ness  caused  by  living  in  huts  and  wandering  from  village  to 
village.  Had  Riabovsky  not  promised  his  brother  artists 
to  stay  till  the  twentieth  of  September,  they  might  have  left 
at  once.  And  how  good  it  would  be  to  leave! 

"My  God!"  groaned  Riabovsky.  "Will  the  sun  ever 
come  out?  I  cannot  paint  a  landscape  without  the  sun!" 

"But  your  study  of  a  cloudy  sky?"  said  Olga  Ivanovna, 
coming  from  behind  the  partition.  "You  remember,  the  one 
with  the  trees  in  the  foreground  to  the  right,  and  the  cows 
and  geese  at  the  left.  You  could  finish  that." 

"What?"  The  artist  frowned.  "Finish  it?  Do  you  really 
think  I'm  so  stupid  that  I  don't  know  what  to  do?" 


LA  CIGALE  25 

"What  I  do  think  is  that  you've  changed  to  me!"  sighed 
Olga  Ivanovna. 

"Yes;  and  that's  all  right." 

Olga  Ivanovna 's  face  quivered;  she  went  to  the  stove  and 
began  to  cry. 

"We  only  wanted  tears  to  complete  the  picture!  Do  stop! 
I  have  a  thousand  reasons  for  crying,  but  I  don't  cry." 

"A  thousand  reasons!"  burst  out  Olga  Ivanovna.  "The 
chief  reason  is  that  you  are  tired  of  me.  Yes!"  She  began 
to  sob.  "I  will  tell  you  the  truth:  you  are  ashamed  of  your 
love.  You  try  to  hide  it,  to  prevent  the  others  noticing, 
but  that  is  useless,  because  they  knew  about  it  long  ago." 

"Olga,  I  ask  only  one  thing,"  said  the  artist  imploringly. 
He  put  his  hand  to  his  ear.  "One  thing  only;  do  not  torture 
me!  I  want  nothing  more  from  you!" 

"Then  swear  to  me  that  you  love  me  still!" 

"This  is  torture!"  hissed  Riabovsky  through  his  teeth. 
He  jumped  up.  "It  will  end  in  my  throwing  myself  into 
the  Volga,  or  going  out  of  my  mind.  Leave  me  alone! " 

"Then  kill  me!  Kill  me!"  cried  Olga  Ivanovna.  "Kill 
me!" 

She  again  sobbed,  and  retired  behind  the  partition.  Rain 
drops  pattered  on  the  cabin  roof.  Riabovsky  with  his  hands 
to  his  head  walked  from  corner  to  corner;  then  with  a  de 
termined  face,  as  if  he  wanted  to  prove  something,  put  on 
his  cap,  took  his  gun,  and  went  out  of  the  hut. 

When  he  left,  Olga  Ivanovna  lay  on  her  bed  and  cried. 
At  first  she  thought  that  it  would  be  good  to  take  poison, 
so  that  Riabovsky  on  his  return  would  find  her  dead.  But 
soon  her  thoughts  bore  her  back  to  the  drawing-room  and 
to  her  husband's  study;  and  she  fancied  herself  sitting  quietly 
beside  Dymov,  enjoying  physical  rest  and  cleanliness;  and 
spending  the  evening  listening  to  Cavalleria  Rusticana.  And 
a  yearning  for  civilisation,  for  the  sound  of  cities,  for  celebri 
ties  filled  her  heart.  A  peasant  woman  entered  the  hut,  and 
lazily  prepared  the  stove  for  dinner.  There  was  a  smell  of 
soot,  and  the  air  turned  blue  from  smoke.  Then  in  came 


26  ROTHSCHILD'S  FIDDLE 

several  artists  in  muddy  top  boots,  their  faces  wet  with 
rain;  and  they  looked  at  the  drawings,  and  consoled  them 
selves  by  saying  that  even  in  bad  weather  the  Volga  had  its 
especial  charm.  The  cheap  clock  on  the  wall  ticked  away; 
half- frozen  flies  swarmed  in  the  ikon-corner  and  buzzed;  and 
cockroaches  could  be  heard  under  the  benches. 

Riabovsky  returned  at  sunset.  He  flung  his  cap  on  the 
table,  and,  pale,  tired,  and  muddy,  dropped  on  a  bench  and 
shut  his  eyes. 

"I  am  tired,"  he  said,  and  wrinkled  his  brows,  trying  to 
open  his  eyes. 

To  show  him  kindness,  and  prove  that  her  anger  had 
passed,  Olga  Ivanovna  came  up  to  him,  kissed  him  silently, 
and  drew  a  comb  through  his  long,  fair  hair. 

"What  are  you  doing  r"'  he  asked,  starting  as  if  something 
cold  had  touched  him.  He  opened  his  eyes.  "What  are  you 
doing?  Leave  me  alone,  I  beg  of  you!" 

He  repulsed  her  with  both  hands;  and  his  face  seemed  to 
express  repugnance  and  vexation.  The  peasant  woman  cau 
tiously  brought  him  a  plate,  and  Olga  Ivanovna  noticed 
how  she  stuck  her  big  fingers  in  the  soup.  And  the  dirty 
peasant  woman  with  her  pendent  stomach,  the  soup  which 
Riabovsky  ate  greedily,  the  hut,  which  she  had  loved  at  first 
for  its  plainness  and  artistic  disorder,  seemed  to  her  un 
bearable.  She  felt  a  deep  sense  of  offence,  and  said  coldly — 

"We  must  part  for  a  time,  otherwise  we'll  only  quarrel 
seriously  out  of  sheer  tedium.  I  am  tired  of  this.  I  am 
going  to-day." 

"Going,  how?    On  the  steamer?" 

"To-day  is  Thursday — there  is  a  steamer  at  half-past 
nine." 

"Eh?  Yes!  ...  All  right,  go,"  said  Riabovsky  softly, 
using  a  towel  for  a  table-napkin.  "It's  tiresome  here  for 
you,  and  there's  nothing  to  do.  Only  a  great  egoist  would 
try  to  keep  you.  Go  ...  we  will  meet  after  the  twentieth." 

Olga  Ivanovna,  in  good  spirits,  packed  her  clothes.  Her 
cheeks  burnt  with  pleasure.  "Is  it  possible?"  she  asked 


LA  CIGALE  27 

herself.  "Is  it  possible  I  shall  soon  paint  in  the  drawing- 
room  and  sleep  in  a  bedroom  and  dine  off  a  tablecloth?" 
Her  heart  grew  lighter,  and  her  anger  with  the  artist  dis 
appeared. 

"I'll  leave  you  the  colours  and  brushes,  Riabusha,"  she 
said.  "You'll  bring  everything.  .  .  .  And,  mind,  don't  idle 
when  I  am  gone;  don't  sulk,  but  work.  You  are  my  boy, 
Riabusha!" 

At  ten  o'clock  Riabovsky  kissed  her  good-bye  in  the  hut, 
to  avoid — as  she  saw — kissing  her  on  the  landing-stage  in 
the  presence  of  others.  Soon  afterwards  the  steamer  arrived 
and  took  her  away. 

Two  and  a  half  days  later  she  reached  home.  Still  in  her 
hat  and  waterproof  cloak,  panting  with  excitement,  she  went 
through  the  drawing-room  into  the  dining-room.  In  his  shirt 
sleeves,  with  unbuttoned  waistcoat,  Dymov  sat  at  the  table 
and  sharpened  a  knife;  on  a  plate  before  him  was  a  grouse. 
As  Olga  Ivanovna  entered  the  house  she  resolved  to  hide 
the  truth  from  her  husband,  and  felt  that  she  was  clever  and 
strong  enough  to  succeed.  But  when  she  saw  his  broad, 
kindly,  happy  smile  and  his  bright,  joyful  eyes,  she  felt 
that  to  deceive  such  a  man  would  be  base  and  impossible,  as 
impossible  as  to  slander,  steal,  or  kill;  and  she  made  up  her 
mind  in  a  second  to  tell  him  the  whole  story.  When  he  had 
kissed  and  embraced  her  she  fell  upon  her  knees  and  hid 
her  face. 

"What?  What  is  it,  mama?"  he  asked  tenderly.  "You 
got  tired  of  it?" 

She  raised  her  face,  red  with  shame,  and  looked  at  him 
guiltily  and  imploringly.  But  fear  and  shame  forbade  her 
to  tell  the  truth. 

"It  is  nothing,"  she  said.    "I  only  .  .  ." 

"Sit  down  here!"  he  said,  lifting  her  and  seating  her  at 
the  table.  "There  we  are!  Eat  the  grouse!  You  are  starv 
ing,  of  course,  poor  child!" 

She  breathed  in  greedily  her  native  air  and  ate  the  grouse. 
And  Dymov  looked  at  her  with  rapture  and  smiled  merrily. 


28  ROTHSCHILD'S  FIDDLE 


VI 

Apparently  about  the  middle  of  winter  Dymov  first  sus 
pected  his  wife's  unfaithfulness.  He  behaved  as  if  his  own 
conscience  reproached  him.  He  no  longer  looked  her  straight 
in  the  face;  no  longer  smiled  radiantly  when  she  came  in 
sight;  and,  to  avoid  being  alone  with  her,  often  brought  home 
to  dinner,  his  colleague,  Korostelev,  a  little  short-haired  man, 
with  a  crushed  face,  who  showed  his  confusion  in  Olga  Iva- 
novna's  society  by  buttoning  and  unbuttoning  his  coat  and 
pinching  his  right  moustache.  During  dinner  the  doctors 
said  that  when  the  diaphragm  rises  abnormally  high  the  heart 
sometimes  beats  irregularly,  that  neuritis  had  greatly  in 
creased,  and  they  discussed  Dymov 's  discovery  made  dur 
ing  dissection  that  a  case  of  cancer  of  the  pancreas  had  been 
wrongly  diagnosed  as  "malignant  anaemia."  And  it  was 
plain  that  both  men  spoke  only  of  medicine  in  order  that 
Olga  Ivanovna  might  be  silent  and  tell  no  lies.  After  din 
ner,  Korostelev  sat  at  the  piano,  and  Dymov  sighed  and 
said  to  him — 

"Akh,  brother!     Well!     Play  me  something  mournful." 

Whereupon,  raising  his  shoulders  and  spreading  his  hands, 
Korostelev  strummed  a  few  chords  and  sang  in  tenor,  "Show 
me  but  one  spot  where  Russia's  peasants  do  not  groan!" 
and  Dymov  sighed  again,  rested  his  head  on  his  hands,  and 
seemed  lost  in  thought. 

Of  late  Olga  Ivanovna  had  behaved  recklessly.  She  awoke 
each  morning  in  bad  spirits,  tortured  by  the  thought  that 
Riabovsky  no  longer  loved  her,  that — thanks  to  the  Lord,  all 
the  same! — all  was  over.  But  as  she  drank  her  coffee  she 
reasoned  that  Riabovsky  had  stolen  her  from  her  husband, 
and  that  now  she  belonged  to  neither.  Then  she  remembered 
a  friend's  remark  that  Riabovsky  was  getting  ready  for  the 
exhibition  a  striking  picture,  a  mixture  of  landscape  and 
genre,  in  the  style  of  Polienov,  and  that  this  picture  sent 
every  one  into  raptures;  this,  she  consoled  herself,  he  had 


LA  CIGALE  29 

done  under  her  influence.  Thanks  to  her  influence,  indeed, 
he  had  on  the  whole  changed  for  the  better,  and  deprived  of 
it,  he  would  probably  perish.  She  remembered  that  when 
last  he  visited  her  he  came  in  a  splashed  cloth  coat  and  a 
new  tie  and  asked  her  languidly,  "Am  I  good-looking?"  And, 
in  truth,  elegant  Riabovsky  with  his  blue  eyes  and  long  curls 
was  very  good-looking — or,  it  may  be,  he  merely  seemed 
so  and  he  had  treated  her  with  affection. 

Having  remembered  and  reasoned  much,  Olga  Ivanovna 
dressed,  and  in  deep  agitation  drove  to  Riabovsky's  studio. 
He  was  in  good  humour,  delighted  with  what  was  indeed  a 
fine  picture;  he  hopped,  played  the  fool,  and  answered  every 
serious  question  with  a  joke.  Olga  Ivanovna  was  jealous 
of  the  picture,  and  hated  it,  but  for  the  sake  of  good  man 
ners,  she  stood  before  it  five  minutes,  and,  sighing  as  people 
sigh  before  holy  things,  said  softly — 

"Yes,  you  never  painted  like  that  before.  Do  you  know, 
it  almost  frightens  me." 

And  she  began  to  implore  him  to  love  her,  not  to  forsake 
.ier,  to  pity  her — poor  and  unfortunate!  She  kissed  his 
hand,  cried,  made  him  swear  his  love,  and  boasted  that 
without  her  influence  he  would  go  off  the  track  and  perish 
utterly.  Thus  having  spoilt  his  good  humour,  and  humiliated 
herself,  she  would  drive  away  to  a  dressmaker,  or  to  some 
actress  friend  to  ask  for  free  tickets. 

Once  when  she  found  Riabovsky  out  she  left  a  note  swear 
ing  that  if  he  did  not  visit  her  at  once  she  would  take  poison. 
And  he,  frightened,  came  and  stayed  to  dinner.  Ignoring 
her  husband's  presence,  he  spoke  to  her  impudently;  and 
she  answered  in  the  same  tone.  They  felt  chained  to  one 
another;  they  were  despots  and  foes;  and  their  anger  hid 
from  them  their  own  rudeness,  which  even  close-clipped 
Korostelev  remarked.  After  dinner  Riabovsky  said  good 
bye  hastily  and  went. 

"Where  are  you  going?"  asked  Olga  Ivanovna.  She  stood 
in  the  hall,  and  looked  at  him  with  hatred. 

Riabovsky  frowned  and  blinked,  and  named  a  woman 


30  ROTHSCHILD'S  FIDDLE 

she  knew,  and  it  was  plain  that  he  enjoyed  her  jealousy, 
and  wished  to  annoy  her.  Olga  Ivanovna  went  to  her  bed 
room  and  lay  on  her  bed;  from  jealousy,  anger,  and  a  sense 
of  humiliation  and  shame,  she  bit  her  pillow,  and  sobbed 
aloud.  Dymov  left  Korostelev  alone,  came  into  the  bed 
room,  and,  confused  and  abstracted,  said  softly — 

"Don't  cry  so  loudly,  mama!  .  .  .  What  good  is  it?  We 
must  keep  silence  about  this.  .  .  .  People  mustn't  see.  .  .  . 
You  know  yourself  that  what  has  happened  is  beyond  re 
call." 

Unable  to  appease  the  painful  jealousy  which  made  her 
temples  throb,  thinking,  nevertheless,  that  what  had  hap 
pened  was  not  beyond  recall,  she  washed  and  powdered  her 
face,  and  flew  off  to  the  woman  friend.  Finding  no  Riabov- 
sky  there  she  drove  to  another,  then  to  a  third.  ...  At  first 
she  felt  ashamed  of  these  visits,  but  she  soon  reconciled  her 
self;  and  one  evening  even  called  on  every  woman  she  knew 
and  sought  Riabovsky;  and  all  of  them  understood  her. 

Of  her  husband  she  said  to  Riabovsky — 

"This  man  tortures  me  with  his  magnanimity." 

And  this  sentence  so  pleased  her  that,  meeting  artists  who 
knew  of  her  affair  with  Riabovsky,  she  repeated  with  an 
emphatic  gesture — 

"This  man  tortures  me  with  his  magnanimity." 

In  general,  her  life  remained  unchanged.  She  resumed 
her  Wednesday-evening  parties.  The  actor  declaimed,  the 
painters  sketched,  the  violoncellist  played,  the  singers  sang; 
and  invariably  half  an  hour  before  midnight  the  dining- 
room  door  opened,  and  Dymov  said  with  a  smile — 

"Come,  gentlemen,  supper  is  ready." 

As  before,  Olga  Ivanovna  sought  celebrities,  found  them, 
and,  insatiable,  sought  for  more.  As  before,  she  returned 
home  late.  But  Dymov,  no  longer  sleeping  as  of  old,  sat 
in  his  study  and  worked.  He  went  to  bed  at  three,  and  rose 
at  eight. 

Once  as  she  stood  before  the  pier-glass  dressing  for  the 
theatre,  Dymov,  in  evening  dress  and  a  white  tie,  came  into 


LA  CIGALE  31 

the  bedroom.  He  smiled  kindly,  with  his  old  smile,  and 
looked  his  wife  joyfully  in  the  face.  His  face  shone. 

"I  have  just  defended  my  dissertation,"  he  said.  He  sat 
down  and  stroked  his  leg. 

"Your  dissertation?"  said  Olga  Ivanovna. 

"Yes,"  he  laughed.  He  stretched  forward  so  as  to  see 
in  the  mirror  the  face  of  his  wife,  who  continued  to  stand 
with  her  back  to  him  and  dress  her  hair.  "Yes,"  he  re 
peated.  "Do  you  know  what?  I  expect  to  be  offered  a 
privat-docentship  in  general  pathology.  That  is  something." 

It  was  plain  from  his  radiant  face  that  had  Olga  Ivanovna 
shared  his  joy  and  triumph  he  would  have  forgiven  and  for 
gotten  everything.  But  "privat-docentship"  and  "general 
pathology"  had  no  meaning  for  her,  and,  what's  more,  she 
feared  to  be  late  for  the  theatre.  She  said  nothing. 

Dymov  sat  still  for  a  few  minutes,  smiled  guiltily,  and 
left  the  room. 


vn 

This  was  an  evil  day. 

Dymov's  head  ached  badly;  he  ate  no  breakfast,  and  did 
not  go  to  the  hospital,  but  lay  on  the  sofa  in  his  study.  At 
one  o'clock  Olga  Ivanovna  went  to  Riabovsky's,  to  show 
him  her  Nature  morte,  and  ask  why  he  had  not  come  the 
day  before.  The  Nature  morte  she  herself  did  not  take  se 
riously;  she  had  painted  it  only  as  an  excuse  to  visit  the 
artist. 

She  went  to  his  apartment  unnounced.  As  she  took  off 
her  goloshes  in  the  hall  she  heard  hasty  footsteps,  and  the 
rustle  of  a  woman's  dress:  and  as  she  hurried  into  the  studio 
a  brown  skirt  flashed  for  a  moment  before  her  and  vanished 
behind  a  big  picture,  which  together  with  its  easel  was  hung 
with  black  calico.  There  was  no  doubt  that  a  woman  hid 
there.  How  often  had  Olga  Ivanovna  herself  hidden  behind 
that  picture!  Riabovskv.  in  confusion,  stretched  out  both 


32  ROTHSCHILD'S  FIDDLE 

hands  as  if  surprised  at  her  visit,  and  said  with  a  constrained 
smile — 

"Ah,  I  am  glad  to  see  you.    What  is  the  news?" 

Olga  Ivanovna's  eyes  filled  with  tears.  She  was  ashamed 
and  angered,  and  would  have  given  millions  to  be  spared 
speaking  before  the  strange  woman,  the  rival,  the  liar,  who 
hid  behind  the  picture  and  tittered,  no  doubt,  maliciously. 

"I  have  brought  a  study  ..."  she  said  in  a  thin,  fright 
ened  voice.  Her  lips  trembled.  "Nature  morte" 

"What?    What?^  A  study?" 

The  artist  took  the  sketch,  looked  at  it,  and  walked  me 
chanically  into  another  room.  Olga  Ivanovna  followed  sub 
missively. 

"Nature  morte  .  .  ."  he  stammered,  seeking  rhymes. 
"Kurort  .  .  .  sort  .  .  .  porte  ..." 

From  the  studio  came  hasty  footfalls  and  the  rustle  of  a 
skirt.  She  had  gone.  Olga  Ivanovna  felt  impelled  to  scream 
and  strike  the  artist  on  the  head;  but  tears  blinded  her,  she 
was  crushed  by  her  shame,  and  felt  as  if  she  were  not  Olga 
Ivanovna  the  artist,  but  a  little  beetle. 

"I  am  tired  .  .  ."  said  Riabovsky  languidly.  He  looked 
at  the  study,  and  shook  his  head  as  if  to  drive  away  sleep. 
"This  is  charming,  of  course,  but  ...  it  is  study  to-day, 
and  study  to-morrow,  and  study  last  year,  and  study  it  will 
be  again  in  a  month.  .  .  .  How  is  it  you  don't  get  tired? 
If  I  were  you,  I  should  .give  up  painting,  and  take  up  seriously 
music,  or  something  else.  .  .  .  You  are  not  an  artist  but  a 
musician.  You  cannot  imagine  how  tired  I  am.  Let  me  order 
some  tea.  Eh?" 

He  left  the  room,  and  Olga  Ivanovna  heard  him  giving 
an  order.  To  avoid  good-byes  and  explanations,  still  more 
to  prevent  herself  sobbing,  she  went  quickly  into  the  hall,  put 
on  her  goloshes,  and  went  out.  Once  in  the  street  she  sighed 
faintly.  She  felt  that  she  was  for  ever  rid  of  Riabovsky  and 
painting,  and  the  heavy  shame  which  had  crushed  her  in  the 
studio.  All  was  over!  She  drove  to  her  dressmaker,  then 
to  Barnay,  who  had  arrived  the  day  before,  and  from  Barnay 


LA  CIGALE  33 

to  a  music  shop,  thinking  all  the  time  how  she  would  write 
Riabovsky  a  cold,  hard  letter,  full  of  her  own  worth;  and 
that  the  spring  and  summer  she  would  spend  with  Dymov  in 
the  Crimea,  free  herself  for  ever  from  the  past,  and  begin 
life  anew. 

On  her  return,  late  as  usual,  she  sat  in  her  street  clothes 
in  the  drawing-room,  and  prepared  to  write.  Riabovsky  had 
told  her  she  was  no  artist;  in  revenge  she  would  write  that 
he  had  painted  every  year  one  and  the  same  tiresome  thing, 
that  he  had  exhausted  himself,  and  would  never  again  pro 
duce  original  work.  She  would  write  also  that  he  owed 
much  to  her  beneficent  influence;  and  that  if  he  made  mis 
takes  it  was  only  because  her  influence  was  paralysed  by 
various  ambiguous  personages  who  hid  behind  his  pictures. 

"Mama!"  cried  Dymov  from  his  study,  without  opening 
the  door. 

"What  is  it?" 

"Mama,  don't  come  in,  but  just  come  to  the  door.    It  is 
this.     The  day  before  yesterday  I  took  diphtheria  at  the 
hospital,  and  now  ...  I  feel  bad.    Send  at  once  for  Koro 
stelev." 

Olga  Ivanovna  called  her  husband  and  men-friends  by  their 
surnames;  she  disliked  his  name  Osip,  which  reminded  her 
of  Gogol's  Osip,  and  the  pun  "Osip  okrip,  a  Arkhip  osip.'* 
But  this  time  she  cried — 

"Osip,  that  is  impossible!" 

"Send!  I  am  ill,"  said  Dymov  from  behind  the  door; 
and  she  heard  him  walking  to  the  sofa  and  lying  down. 
"Send!"  came  his  hoarse  voice. 

"What  can  it  be?"  thought  Olga  Ivanovna,  chilled  with 
fear.  "Why  this  is  dangerous!" 

Without  any  aim  she  took  a  candle,  and  went  into  her 
room,  and  there,  wondering  what  she  should  do,  she  saw 
herself  unexpectedly  in  the  glass.  With  her  pale,  terrified 
face,  her  high-sleeved  jacket  with  the  yellow  gathers  on  the 
breast,  her  skirt  with  its  strange  stripes,  she  seemed  to  herself 
frightful  and  repulsive.  And  suddenly  she  felt  sorry  for 


34  ROTHSCHILD'S  FIDDLE 

Dymov,  sorry  for  his  infinite  love,  his  young  life,  the  for 
saken  bed  on  which  he  had  not  slept  so  long.  And  remem 
bering  his  kindly,  suppliant  smile,  she  cried  bitterly,  and 
wrote  Korostelev  an  imploring  letter.  It  was  two  o'clock 
in  the  morning. 

VIII 

When  at  eight  next  morning  Olga  Ivanovna,  heavy  from 
sleeplessness,  untidy,  unattractive,  and  guilty-faced,  came 
out  of  her  bedroom,  an  unknown,  black-bearded  man,  ob 
viously  a  doctor,  passed  her  in  the  hall.  There  was  a  smell 
of  drugs.  Outside  Dymov's  study  stood  Korostelev,  twisting 
his  left  moustache  with  his  right  hand. 

"Excuse  me,  I  cannot  let  you  in,"  he  said,  looking  at  her 
savagely.  "You  might  catch  the  disease.  And  in  any  case, 
what's  the  use?  He's  raving." 

"Is  it  really  diphtheria?"  whispered  Olga  Ivanovna. 

"People  who  do  foolish  things  ought  to  pay  for  them," 
muttered  Korostelev,  ignoring  Olga  Ivanovna's  question. 
"Do  you  know  how  he  got  this  diphtheria?  On  Tuesday  he 
sucked  through  a  tube  the  diphtheria  laminae  from  a  boy's 
throat.  And  why?  Stupid.  .  .  .  Like  a  fool!" 

"Is  it  dangerous?    Very?"  asked  she. 

1  'Yes,  it's  a  very  bad  form,  they  say.  We  must  send  for 
Schreck,  we  must.  ..." 

First  came  a  little,  red-haired,  long-nosed  man  with  a  Jew 
ish  accent;  then  a  tall,  stooping,  untidy  man  like  a  proto- 
deacon ;  lastly  a  young,  very  stout,  red-faced  man  with  spec 
tacles.  All  these  doctors  came  to  attend  their  sick  colleague. 
Korostelev,  having  served  his  turn,  remained  in  the  house, 
wandering  about  like  a  shadow.  The  maid-servant  was  kept 
busy  serving  the  doctors  with  tea,  and  running  to  the  apothe 
cary's,  and  no  one  tidied  the  rooms.  All  was  still  and  sad. 

Olga  Ivanovna  sat  in  her  room,  and  reflected  that  God  was 
punishing  her  for  deceiving  her  husband.  That  silent,  un 
complaining,  inexplicable  man — impersonified,,  it  seemed, 


LA  CIGALh  35 

by  kindness  and  mildness,  weak  from  excessive  goodness — 
lay  on  his  sofa  and  suffered  alone,  uttering  no  groan.  And 
if  he  did  complain  in  his  delirium,  the  doctors  would  guess 
that  the  diphtheria  was  not  the  only  culprit.  They  would 
question  Korostelev,  who  knew  all,  and  not  without  cause, 
looked  viciously  at  his  friend's  wife  as  if  she  were  chief  and 
real  offender,  and  disease  only  her  accomplice.  She  no 
longer  thought  of  the  moonlight  Volga  night,  the  love  avowal, 
the  romance  of  life  in  the  peasant's  hut;  she  remembered  only 
that  from  caprice  and  selfishness  she  had  smeared  herself 
from  head  to  feet  with  something  vile  and  sticky  which  no 
washing  would  wash  away. 

"Akh,  how  I  lied  to  him!"  she  said,  remembering  her  rest 
less  love  of  Riabovsky.  "May  it  be  accursed! " 

At  four  o'clock  she  dined  with  Korostelev,  who  ate  noth 
ing,  but  drank  red  wine,  and  frowned.  She  too  ate  nothing. 
But  she  prayed  silently,  and  vowed  to  God  that  if  Dymov 
only  recovered,  she  would  love  him  again  and  be  his  faith 
ful  wife.  Then,  forgetting  herself  for  a  moment,  she  looked 
at  Korostelev  and  thought:  "How  tiresome  it  is  to  be  such 
a  simple,  undistinguished,  obscure  man,  and  to  have  such 
bad  manners."  It  seemed  to  her  that  God  would  strike  her 
dead  for  her  cowardice  in  keeping  away  from  her  husband. 
And  altogether  she  was  oppressed  by  a  dead  melancholy,  and 
a  feeling  that  her  life  was  ruined,  and  that  nothing  now 
would  mend  it. 

After  dinner,  darkness.  Olga  Ivanovna  went  into  the 
drawing-room,  and  found  Korostelev  asleep  on  a  couch,  his 
head  resting  on  a  silken  cushion  embroidered  with  gold.  He 
snored  loudly. 

Alone  the  doctors,  coming  on  and  off  duty,  ignored  the 
disorder.  The  strange  man  sleeping  and  snoring  in  the 
drawing-room,  the  studies  on  the  walls,  the  wonderful  decora 
tions,  the  mistress's  dishevelled  hair  and  untidy  dress — 
none  of  these  awakened  the  least  interest.  One  of  the  doc 
tors  laughed;  and  this  laugh  had  such  a  timid  sound  that  it 
was  painful  to  hear. 


36  ROTHSCHILD'S  FIDDLE 

When  next  Olga  Ivanovna  entered  the  drawing-room  Koro- 
stelev  was  awake.  He  sat  up  and  smoked. 

"He  has  got  diphtheria  ...  in  the  nasal  cavity,"  he  said 
quietly.  "Yes  .  .  .  and  his  heart  is  weak.  ...  It  is  a  bad 
business." 

"Better  send  for  Schreck,"  said  Olga  Ivanovna. 

"He's  been.  It  was  he  noticed  that  the  diphtheria  had 
got  into  the  nose.  Yes  .  .  .  but  what  is  Schreck?  In  real 
ity,  Schreck  is  nothing.  He  is  Schreck,  I  am  Korostelev, 
and  nothing  more!" 

Time  stretched  into  eternity.  Olga  Ivanovna  lay  dressed 
on  her  unmade  bed,  and  slumbered.  She  felt  that  the  whole 
flat  from  roof  to  ceiling  was  filled  with  a  giant  block  of 
iron,  and  that  if  the  iron  were  only  removed,  all  would  be 
well  again.  But  then  she  remembered  that  there  was  no 
iron,  but  only  Dymov's  illness. 

"Nature  morte  .  .  ."  she  thought,  again  losing  conscious 
ness.  "Sport,  kurort.  .  .  .  And  what  about  Schreck? 
Schreck,  greek,  vreck,  kreck.  Where  are  my  friends  now? 
Do  they  know  of  the  sorrow  that  has  overtaken  us?  O  Lord, 
save  .  .  .  deliver  us!  Schreck,  greek.  .  .  ." 

And  again  the  iron.  Time  stretched  into  eternity,  and 
the  clock  downstairs  struck  innumerable  times.  Now  and 
then  the  bell  was  rung.  Doctors  came.  ...  In  came  the 
servant  with  an  empty  glass  on  a  salver,  and  said — 

"Shall  I  make  the  bed,  ma'am?" 

And,  receiving  no  answer,  she  went  out.  Again  the  clock 
struck — dreams  of  rain  on  the  Volga — and  again  some  one 
arrived,  this  time,  it  seemed,  a  stranger.  Olga  Ivanovna 
started,  and  saw  Korostelev. 

"What  time  is  it?"  she  asked. 

"About  three." 

"Well,  what?" 

"Just  that.    I  came  to  say  that  he's  dying." 

He  sobbed,  sat  down  on  her  bed,  and  wiped  away  his 
tears  with  his  sleeve.  At  first  Olga  Ivanovna  understood 
nothing;  then  she  turned  cold,  and  began  to  cross  herself. 


LA  CIGALE  37 

"He  is  dying,"  he  repeated  in  a  thin  voice;  and  again  he 
sobbed.  "He  is  dying — because  he  sacrificed  himself.  What 
a  loss  to  science! "  He  spoke  bitterly.  "This  man,  compared 
with  the  best  of  us,  was  a  great  man,  an  exceptional  man! 
What  gifts!  What  hopes  he  awakened  in  us  all!"  Koro- 
stelev  wrung  his  hands.  "Lord,  my  God,  you  will  not  find 
such  a  scholar  if  you  search  till  judgment  day!  Oska  Dy- 
mov,  Oska  Dymov,  what  have  you  done?  My  God!" 

In  despair  he  covered  his  face  with  his  hands  and  shook 
his  head. 

"And  what  moral  fortitude!"  he  continued,  each  second 
increasing  in  anger.  "Good,  pure,  loving  soul — not  a  man, 
but  a  crystal !  How  he  served  his  science,  how  he's  died  for 
it.  WTorked — day  and  night — like  an  ox,  sparing  himself 
never;  and  he,  the  young  scholar,  the  coming  professor,  was 
forced  to  seek  a  practice  and  spend  his  nights  translating  to 
pay  for  these  .  .  .  these  dirty  rags!" 

Korostelev  looked  fiendishly  at  Olga  Ivanovna,  seized  the 
sheet  with  both  hands,  and  tore  it  as  angrily  as  if  it,  and  not 
she,  were  guilty. 

"And  he  never  spared  himself  .  .  .  nor  did  others  spare 
him.  And  for  what  purpose  .  .  .  why?" 

"Yes,  a  man  in  a  hundred!"  came  a  deep  voice  from  the 
dining-room. 

Olga  Ivanovna  recalled  her  life  with  Dymov,  from  begin 
ning  to  end,  in  all  its  details;  and  suddenly  she  realised  that 
her  husband  was  indeed  an  exceptional  man,  a  rare — com 
pared  with  all  her  other  friends — a  great  man.  And  re 
membering  how  he  was  looked  up  to  by  her  late  father  and 
by  all  his  colleagues,  she  understood  that  there  was  indeed 
good  reason  to  predict  for  him  future  fame.  The  walls,  the 
ceiling,  the  lamp,  the  carpet  winked  at  her  derisively,  as  if 
saying,  "You  have  let  it  slip  by,  slip  by!"  With  a  cry,  she 
rushed  out  of  the  room,  slipped  past  some  unknown  man  in 
the  dining-room,  and  rushed  into  her  husband's  study.  Cov 
ered  with  a  counterpane  to  the  waist,  Dymov  lay,  motion- 
less,  on  the  couch.  His  face  had  grown  thin,  and  was  a 


38  ROTHSCHILD'S  FIDDLE 

greyish-yellow  never  seen  on  the  living;  his  black  eyebrows 
and  his  kindly  smile  were  all  that  remained  of  Dymov.  She 
felt  his  chest,  his  forehead,  his  hands.  His  chest  was  still 
warm,  his  forehead  and  hands  were  icy.  And  his  half-closed 
eyes  looked  not  at  Olga  Ivanovna,  but  down  at  the  counter 
pane. 

"Dymov!"  she  cried  loudly.     "Dymov!" 

She  wished  to  explain  to  him  that  the  past  was  but  a 
mistake;  that  all  was  not  yet  lost;  that  life  might  yet  be 
happy  and  beautiful;  that  he  was  a  rare,  an  uncommon,  a 
great  man;  that  she  would  worship  him  from  this  day  forth, 
and  pray,  and  torture  herself  with  holy  dread.  .  .  . 

"Dymov!"  she  cried,  tapping  his  shoulder,  refusing  to 
believe  that  he  would  never  awaken.  "Dymov!  Dymov!" 

But  in  the  drawing-room  Korostelev  spoke  to  the  maid 
servant. 

"Don't  ask  silly  questions!  Go  at  once  to  the  church 
watchman,  and  get  the  women's  address.  They  will  wash 
the  body,  and  lay  it  out,  and  do  all  that's  wanted." 


THE  NAUGHTY  BOY 


IVAN  IVANYCH  LAPKIN,  a  pleasant  looking  young 
man,  and  Anna  Semyonovna  Zamblitzky,  a  young  girl 
with  a  little  snub  nose,  walked  down  the  sloping  bank  and 
sat  down  on  the  bench.  The  bench  was  close  to  the  water's 
edge,  among  thick  bushes  of  young  willow.  A  heavenly 
spot!  You  sat  down,  and  you  were  hidden  from  the  world. 
Only  the  fish  could  see  you  and  the  catspaws  which  flashed 
over  the  water  like  lightning.  The  two  young  persons  were 
equipped  with  rods,  fish  hooks,  bags,  tins  of  worms  and 
everything  else  necessary.  Once  seated,  they  immediately 
began  to  fish. 

"I  am  glad  that  we're  left  alone  at  last,"  said  Lapkin, 
looking  round,  "I've  got  a  lot  to  tell  you,  Anna — tremend 
ous  .  .  .  when  I  saw  you  for  the  first  time  .  .  .  you've  got 
a  nibble  ...  I  understood  then — why  I  am  alive,  I  knew 
where  my  idol  was,  to  whom  I  can  devote  my  honest,  hard 
working  life.  ...  It  must  be  a  big  one  ...  it  is  bit 
ing  ...  When  I  saw  you — for  the  first  time  in  my  life  I 
fell  in  love — fell  in  love  passionately!  Don't  pull.  Let  it 
go  on  biting.  .  .  .  Tell  me,  darling,  tell  me — will  you  let  me 
hope?  No!  I'm  not  worth  it.  I  dare  not  even  think  of  it — 
may  I  hope  for  ...  Pull!" 

Anna  lifted  her  hand  that  held  the  rod — pulled,  cried  out. 
A  silvery  green  fish  shone  in  the  air. 

"Goodness!  it's  a  perch!  Help — quick!  It's  slipping 
off."  The  perch  tore  itself  from  the  hook — danced  in  the 
grass  towards  its  native  element  and  .  .  .  leaped  into  th$ 
water. 

39 


40  ROTHSCHILD'S  FIDDLE 

But  instead  of  the  little  fish  that  he  was  chasing,  Lapkin 
quite  by  accident  caught  hold  of  Anna's  hand — quite  by  ac 
cident  pressed  it  to  his  lips.  She  drew  back,  but  it  was  too 
late;  quite  by  accident  their  lips  met  and  kissed;  yes,  it 
was  an  absolute  accident!  They  kissed  and  kissed.  Then 
came  vows  and  assurances.  .  .  .  Blissful  moments!  But 
there  is  no  such  thing  as  absolute  happiness  in  this  life.  If 
happiness  itself  does  not  contain  a  poison,  poison  will  enter 
in  from  without.  Which  happened  this  time.  Suddenly, 
while  the  two  were  kissing,  a  laugh  was  heard.  They  looked 
at  the  river  and  were  paralysed.  The  schoolboy  Kolya,  An 
na's  brother,  was  standing  in  the  water,  watching  the  young 
people  and  maliciously  laughing. 

"Aha— ha!  Kissing!"  said  he.  "Right  O,  I'll  tell 
Mother." 

"I  hope  that  you — as  a  man  of  honour, "^apkin  muttered, 
blushing.  "It's  disgusting  to  spy  on  us,  it's  loathsome  to  tell 
tales,  it's  rotten.  As  a  man  of  honour  .  .  ." 

"Give  me  a  shilling,  then  I'll  shut  up!"  the  man  of  honour 
retorted.  "If  you  don't,  I'll  tell." 

Lapkin  took  a  shilling  out  of  his  pocket  and  gave  it  to 
Kolya,  who  squeezed  it  in  his  wet  fist,  whistled,  and  swam 
away.  And  the  young  people  did  not  kiss  any  more  just 
then. 

Next  day  Lapkin  brought  Kolya  some  paints  and  a  ball 
from  town,  and  his  sister  gave  him  all  her  empty  pill  boxes. 
Then  they  had  to  present  him  with  a  set  of  studs  like  dogs' 
heads.  The  wretched  boy  enjoyed  this  game  immensely, 
and  to  keep  it  going  he  began  to  spy  on  them.  Wherever 
Lapkin  and  Anna  went,  he  was  there  too.  He  did  not 
leave  them  alone  for  a  single  moment. 

"Beast!"  Lapkin  gnashed  his  teeth.  "So  young  and  yet 
such  a  full  fledged  scoundrel.  What  on  earth  will  become 
of  him  later!" 

During  the  whole  of  July  the  poor  lovers  had  no  life 
apart  from  him.  He  threatened  to  tell  on  them;  he  dogged 
them  and  demanded  more  presents.  Nothing  satisfied  him 


THE  NAUGHTY  BOY  41 

—finally  he  hinted  at  a  gold  watch.  All  right,  they  had  to 
promise  the  watch. 

Once,  at  table,  when  biscuits  were  being  handed  round, 
he  burst  out  laughing  and  said  to  Lapkin:  "Shall  I  let  on? 
Ah— ha!" 

Lapkin  blushed  fearfully  and  instead  of  a  biscuit  he  began 
to  chew  his  table  napkin.  Anna  jumped  up  from  the  table 
and  rushed  out  of  the  room. 

And  this  state  of  things  went  on  until  the  end  of  August, 
up  to  the  day  when  Lapkin  at  last  proposed  to  Anna.  Ah! 
What  a  happy  day  that  was!  When  he  had  spoken  to  her 
parents  and  obtained  their  consent  Lapkin  rushed  into  the 
garden  after  Kolya.  When  he  found  him  he  nearly  cried 
for  joy  and  caught  hold  of  the  wretched  boy  by  the  ear. 
Anna,  who  was  also  looking  for  Kolya  came  running  up  and 
grabbed  him  by  the  other  ear.  You  should  have  seen  the 
happiness  depicted  on  their  faces  while  Kolya  roared  and 
begged  them: 

"Darling,  precious  pets,  I  won't  do  it  again.  O-oh — 
O-oh!  Forgive  me!"  And  both  of  them  confessed  after 
wards  that  during  all  the  time  they  were  in  love  with  each 
other  they  never  experienced  such  happiness,  such  over 
whelming  joy  as  during  those  moments  when  they  pulled 
the  wretched  boy's  ears. 


THE  BLACK  MONK 


ANDREY  VASILYEVICH  KOVRIN,  Magister,  had 
worn  himself  out,  and  unsettled  his  nerves.  He  made 
no  effort  to  undergo  regular  treatment;  but  only  incidentally, 
over  a  bottle  of  wine,  spoke  to  his  friend  the  doctor;  and 
his  friend  the  doctor  advised  him  to  spend  all  the  spring 
and  summer  in  the  country.  And  in  the  nick  of  time  came 
a  long  letter  from  Tanya  Pesotzky,  asking  him  to  come  and 
stay  with  her  father  at  Borisovka.  He  decided  to  go. 

But  first  (it  was  in  April)  he  travelled  to  his  own  estate, 
to  his  native  Kovrinka,  and  spent  three  weeks  in  solitude; 
and  only  when  the  fine  weather  came  drove  across  the  coun 
try  to  his  former  guardian  and  second  parent,  Pesotzky, 
the  celebrated  Russian  horticulturist.  From  Kovrinka  to 
Boriskova,  the  home  of  the  Pesotzkys,  was  a  distance  of 
some  seventy  versts,  and  in  the  easy,  springed  caleche  the 
drive  along  the  roads,  soft  in  springtime,  promised  real  en 
joyment. 

The  house  at  Borisovka  was  large,  faced  with  a  colonnade, 
and  adorned  with  figures  of  lions  with  the  plaster  falling  off. 
At  the  door  stood  a  servant  in  livery.  The  old  park, 
gloomy  and  severe,  laid  out  in  English  fashion,  stretched  for 
nearly  a  verst  from  the  house  down  to  the  river,  and  ended 
there  in  a  steep  clay  bank  covered  with  pines  whose  bare 
roots  resembled  shaggy  paws.  Below  sparkled  a  deserted 
stream;  overhead  the  snipe  circled  about  with  melancholy 

42 


THE  BLACK  MONK  45 

cries — all,  in  short,  seemed  to  invite  a  visitor  to  sit  down  and 
write  a  ballad.  But  the  gardens  and  orchards,  which  to 
gether  with  the  seed-plots  occupied  some  eighty  acres,  in 
spired  very  different  feelings.  Even  in  the  worst  of  weather 
they  were  bright  and  joy-inspiring.  Such  wonderful  roses, 
lilies,  camelias,  such  tulips,  such  a  host  of  flowering  plants 
of  every  possible  kind  and  colour,  from  staring  white  to 
sooty  black, — such  a  wealth  of  blossoms  Kovrin  had  never 
seen  before.  The  spring  was  only  beginning,  and  the  great 
est  rareties  were  hidden  under  glass;  but  already  enough 
bloomed  in  the  alleys  and  beds  to  make  up  an  empire  of 
delicate  shades.  And  most  charming  of  all  was  it  in  the 
early  hours  of  morning,  when  dewdrops  glistened  on  every 
petal  and  leaf. 

In  childhood  the  decorative  part  of  the  garden,  called 
contemptuously  by  Pesotzky  "the  rubbish,"  had  produced 
on  Kovrin  a  fabulous  impression.  What  miracles  of  art, 
what  studied  monstrosities,  what  mockeries  of  nature! 
Espaliers  of  fruit  trees,  a  pear  tree  shaped  like  a  pyramidal 
poplar,  globular  oaks  and  lindens,  apple-tree  houses,  archesj 
monograms,  candelabra — even  the  date  1862  in  plum  trees, 
to  commemorate  the  year  in  which  Pesotzky  first  engaged 
in  the  art  of  gardening.  There  were  stately,  symmetrical 
trees,  with  trunks  erect  as  those  of  palms,  which  after 
examination  proved  to  be  gooseberry  or  currant  trees.  But 
what  most  of  all  enlivened  the  garden  and  gave  it  its  joyous 
tone  was  the  constant  movement  of  Pesotzky's  gardeners. 
From  early  morning  to  late  at  night,  by  the  trees,  by  the 
bushes,  in  the  alleys,  and  on  the  beds  swarmed  men  as 
busy  as  ants,  with  barrows,  spades,  and  watering-pots. 

Kovrin  arrived  at  Borisovka  at  nine  o'clock.  He  found 
Tanya  and  her  father  in  great  alarm.  The  clear  starlight 
night  foretold  frost,  and  the  head  gardener,  Ivan  Karlych, 
had  gone  to  town,  so  tfaat  there  was  no  one  who  could  be 
relied  upon.  At  supper  they  spoke  only  of  the  impending 
frost;  and  it  was  decided  that  Tanya  should  not  go  to 
bed  at  all,  but  should  inspect  the  gardens  at  one  o'clock 


44  ROTHSCHILD'S  FIDDLE 

and  see  if  all  were  in  order,  while  Yegor  Semionovich  should 
dse  at  three  o'clock,  or  even  earlier. 

Kovrin  sat  with  Tanya  all  the  evening,  and  after  mid 
night  accompanied  her  to  the  garden.  The  air  already  smelt 
strongly  of  burning.  In  the  great  orchard,  called  "the  com 
mercial,"  which  every  year  brought  Yegor  Semionovich  thou 
sands  of  rubles  profit,  there  already  crept  along  the  ground 
the  thick,  black,  sour  smoke  which  was  to  clothe  the  young 
leaves  and  save  the  plants.  The  trees  were  marshalled  like 
chessmen  in  straight  rows — like  ranks  of  soldiers;  and  this 
pedantic  regularity,  together  with  the  uniformity  of  height, 
made  the  garden  seem  monotonous  and  even  tiresome.  Kov 
rin  and  Tanya  walked  up  and  down  the  alleys,  and  watched 
the  fires  of  dung,  straw,  and  litter;  but  seldom  met  the  work 
men,  who  wandered  in  the  smoke  like  shadows.  Only  the 
cherry  and  plum  trees  and  a  few  apple  trees  were  in  blossom, 
but  the  whole  garden  was  shrouded  in  smoke,  and  it  was 
only  when  they  reached  the  seed-plots  that  Kovrin  was  able 
to  breathe. 

"I  remember  when  I  was  a  child  sneezing  from  the  smoke," 
he  said,  shrugging  his  shoulders,  "but  to  this  day  I  cannot 
understand  how  smoke  saves  plants  from  the  frost." 

"Smoke  is  a  good  substitute  when  there  are  no  clouds," 
answered  Tanya. 

"But  what  do  you  want  the  clouds  for?" 

"In  dull  and  cloudy  weather  we  have  no  morning  frosts." 

"Is  that  so?"  said  Kovrin. 

He  laughed  and  took  Tanya  by  the  hand.  Her  broad, 
very  serious,  chilled  face;  her  thick,  black  eyebrows:  the 
stiff  collar  on  her  jacket  which  prevented  her  from  moving 
her  head  freely;  her  dress  tucked  up  out  of  the  dew;  and 
her  whole  figure,  erect  and  slight,  pleased  him. 

"Heavens!  how  she  has  grown!"  he  said  to  himself. 
"When  I  was  here  last  time,  five  years  ago,  you  were  quite 
a  child.  You  were  thin,  long-legged,  and  untidy,  and  wore 
a  short  dress,  and  I  used  to  tease  you.  What  a  change  in 
five  years  i" 


THE  BLACK  MONK  45 

"Yes,  five  years!"  sighed  Tanya.  "A  lot  of  things  have 
happened  since  then.  Tell  me,  Andrei,  honestly,"  she  said, 
looking  merrily  into  his  face,  "do  you  feel  that  you  have 
got  out  of  touch  with  us?  But  why  do  I  ask?  You  are 
a  man,  you  live  your  own  interesting  life,  you  .  .  .  Some  es 
trangement  is  natural.  But  whether  that  is  so  or  not, 
Andriusha,  I  want  you  now  to  look  on  us  as  your  own.  We 
have  a  right  to  that." 

"I  do,   already,  Tanya." 

"Your  word  of  honour?" 

"My  word  of  honour." 

"You  were  surprised  that  we  had  so  many  of  your  photo 
graphs.  But  surely  you  know  how  my  father  adores  you, 
worships  you.  You  are  a  scholar,  and  not  an  ordinary  man ; 
you  have  built  up  a  brilliant  career,  and  he  is  firmly  con 
vinced  that  you  turned  out  a  success  because  he  educated 
you.  I  do  not  interfere  with  his  delusion.  Let  him  be 
lieve  it!" 

Already  dawn.  The  sky  paled,  and  the  foliage  and 
clouds  of  smoke  began  to  show  themselves  more  clearly. 
The  nightingale  sang,  and  from  the  fields  came  the  cry  of 
quails. 

"It  is  time  for  bed!"  said  Tanya.  "It  is  cold  too." 
She  took  Kovrin  by  the  hand.  "Thanks,  Andriusha,  for 
coming.  We  are  cursed  with  most  uninteresting  acquaint 
ances,  and  not  many  even  of  them.  With  us  it  is  always 
garden,  garden,  garden,  and  nothing  else.  Trunks,  tim 
bers,"  she  laughed,  "pippins,  rennets,  budding,  pruning, 
grafting.  ...  All  our  life  goes  into  the  garden,  we  never 
even  dream  of  anything  but  apples  and  pears.  Of  course 
this  is  all  very  good  and  useful,  but  sometimes  I  cannot  help 
wishing  for  change.  I  remember  when  you  used  to  come 
and  pay  us  visits,  and  when  you  came  home  for  the  holi 
days,  how  the  whole  house  grew  fresher  and  brighter,  as 
if  someone  had  taken  the  covers  off  the  furniture.  I  was 
then  a  very  little  girl,  but  I  understood.  ..." 

Tanya  spoke  for  a  time,  and  spoke  with  feeling.     Then 


46  ROTHSCHILD'S  FIDDLE 

suddenly  it  came  into  Kovrin 's  head  that  during  the  sum 
mer  he  might  become  attached  to  this  little,  weak,  talka 
tive  being,  that  he  might  get  carried  away,  fall  in  love — 
in  their  position  what  was  more  probable  and  natural? 
The  thought  pleased  him,  amused  him,  and  as  he  bent  down 
to  the  kind,  troubled  face,  he  hummed  to  himself  Pushkin's 
couplet: 

"Oniegin,  I  will  not  conceal 
That  I  love  Tatyana  madly." 

By  the  time  they  reached  the  house  Yegor  Semionovich 
had  risen.  Kovrin  felt  no  desire  to  sleep;  he  entered  into 
conversation  with  the  old  man,  and  returned  with  him  to 
the  garden.  Yegor  Semionovich  was  tall,  broad-shouldered, 
and  fat.  He  suffered  from  shortness  of  breath,  yet  walked 
so  quickly  that  it  was  difficult  to  keep  up  with  him.  His 
expression  was  always  troubled  and  hurried,  and  he  seemed 
to  be  thinking  that  if  he  were  a  single  second  late  every 
thing  would  be  destroyed. 

"There,  brother,  is  a  mystery  for  you!"  he  began,  stop 
ping  to  recover  breath.  "On  the  surface  of  the  ground,  as 
you  see,  there  is  frost,  but  raise  the  thermometer  a  couple 
of  yards  on  your  stick,  and  it  is  quite  warm.  .  .  .  Why  is 
that?" 

"I  confess  I  don't  know,"  said  Kovrin,  laughing. 

"No!  .  .  .  You  can't  know  everything.  .  .  .  The  biggest 
brain  cannot  comprehend  everything.  You  are  still  en 
gaged  with  your  philosophy?" 

"Yes,  ...  I  am  studying  psychology,  and  philosophy 
generally." 

"And  it  doesn't  bore  you?" 

"On  the  contrary,  I  couldn't  live  without  it." 

"Well,  God  grant  .  .  ."  began  Yegor  Semionovich,  smooth 
ing  his  big  whiskers  thoughtfully.  "Well,  God  grant  .  .  . 
I  am  very  glad  for  your  sake,  brother,  very  glad.  .  .  ." 

Suddenly  he  began  to  listen,  and  making  a  terrible  face, 
ran  off  the  path  and  soon  vanished  among  the  trees  in  a 
cloud  of  smoke. 


THE  BLACK  MONK  47 

"Who  tethered  this  horse  to  the  tree?"  rang  out  a  de 
spairing  voice.  "Which  of  you  thieves  and  murderers  dared 
to  tether  this  horse  to  the  apple  tree?  My  God,  my  God! 
Ruined,  ruined,  spoiled,  destroyed!  The  garden  is  ruined, 
the  garden  is  destroyed!  My  God!" 

When  he  returned  to  Kovrin  his  face  bore  an  expression 
of  injury  and  impotence. 

"What  on  earth  can  you  do  with  these  accursed  people?" 
he  asked  in  a  whining  voice,  wringing  his  hands.  "Stepka 
brought  a  manure  cart  here  last  night  and  tethered  the  horse 
to  an  apple  tree  .  .  .  tied  the  reins,  the  idiot,  so  tight, 
that  the  bark  is  rubbed  off  in  three  places.  What  can  you 
do  with  men  like  this?  I  speak  to  him  and  he  blinks  his  eyes 
and  looks  stupid.  He  ought  to  be  hanged!" 

When  at  last  he  calmed  down,  he  embraced  Kovrin  and 
kissed  him  on  the  cheek. 

"Well,  God  grant  .  .  .  God  grant!  .  .  ."  he  stammered. 
"I  am  very,  very  glad  that  you  have  come.  I  cannot  say 
how  glad.  Thanks!" 

Then,  with  the  same  anxious  face,  and  walking  with  the 
same  quick  step,  he  went  round  the  whole  garden,  showing 
his  former  ward  the  orangery,  the  hothouses,  the  sheds,  and 
two  beehives  which  he  described  as  the  miracle  of  the  cen 
tury. 

As  they  walked  about,  the  sun  rose,  lighting  up  the  gar 
den.  It  grew  hot.  When  he  thought  of  the  long,  bright 
day  before  him,  Kovrin  remembered  that  it  was  but  the 
beginning  of  May,  and  that  he  had  before  him  a  whole 
summer  of  long,  bright,  and  happy  days;  and  suddenly 
through  him  pulsed  the  joyous,  youthful  feeling  which  he  had 
felt  when  as  a  child  he  played  in  this  same  garden.  And 
in  turn,  he  embraced  the  old  man  and  kissed  him  tenderly. 
Touched  by  remembrances,  the  pair  went  into  the  house 
and  drank  tea  out  of  the  old  china  cups,  with  cream  and 
rich  biscuits;  and  these  trifles  again  reminded  Kovrin  of 
his  childhood  and  youth.  The  splendid  present  and  the 


48  ROTHSCHILD'S  FIDDLE 

awakening  memories  of  the  past  mingled,  and  a  feeling  of 
intense  happiness  filled  his  heart. 

He  waited  until  Tanya  awoke,  and  having  drunk  coffee 
with  her,  walked  through  the  garden,  and  then  went  to 
his  room  and  began  to  work.  He  read  attentively,  making 
notes;  and  only  lifted  his  eyes  from  his  books  when  he 
felt  that  he  must  look  out  of  the  window  or  at  the  fresh 
roses,  still  wet  with  dew,  which  stood  in  vases  on  his  table. 
It  seemed  to  him  that  every  little  vein  in  his  body  trembled 
and  pulsated  with  joy. 

n 

But  in  the  country  Kovrin  continued  to  live  the  same 
nervous  and  untranquil  life  as  he  had  lived  in  town.  He 
read  much,  wrote  much,  studied  Italian;  and  when  he  went 
for  walks,  thought  all  the  time  of  returning  to  work.  He 
slept  so  little  that  he  astonished  the  household;  if  by  chance 
he  slept  in  the  daytime  for  half  an  hour,  he  could  not 
sleep  all  the  following  night.  Yet  after  these  sleepless 
nights  he  felt  active  and  gay. 

He  talked  much,  drank  wine,  and  smoked  expensive  cigars. 
Often,  nearly  every  day,  young  girls  from  the  neighbouring 
country-houses  drove  over  to  Borisovka,  played  the  piano 
with  Tanya,  and  sang.  Sometimes  the  visitor  was  a  young 
man,  also  a  neighbour,  who  played  the  violin  well.  Kovrin 
listened  eagerly  to  their  music  and  singing,  but  was  exhausted 
by  it,  so  exhausted  sometimes  that  his  eyes  closed  involun 
tarily,  and  his  head  drooped  on  his  shoulder. 

One  evening  after  tea  he  sat  upon  the  balcony,  reading. 
In  the  drawing-room  Tanya — a  soprano,  one  of  her  friends 
— a  contralto,  and  the  young  violinist  studied  the  well- 
known  serenade  of  Braga.  Kovrin  listened  to  the  words, 
but  though  they  were  Russian,  could  not  understand  their 
meaning.  At  last,  laying  down  his  book  and  listening  at 
tentively,  he  understood.  A  girl  with  a  disordered  imagina 
tion  heard  by  night  in  a  garden  some  mysterious  sounds, 


THE  BLACK  MONK  49 

sounds  so  beautiful  and  strange  that  she  was  forced  to  recog 
nise  their  harmony  and  holiness,  which  to  us  mortals  are 
incomprehensible,  and  therefore  flew  back  to  heaven.  Kov- 
rin's  eyelids  drooped.  He  rose,  and  in  exhaustion  walked 
up  and  down  the  drawing-room,  and  then  up  and  down  the 
hall.  When  the  music  ceased,  he  took  Tanya  by  the  hand 
and  went  out  with  her  to  the  balcony. 

"All  day — since  early  morning,"  he  began,  "my  head 
has  been  taken  up  with  a  strange  legend.  I  cannot  remem 
ber  whether  I  read  it,  or  where  I  heard  it,  but  the  legend  is 
very  remarkable  and  not  very  coherent.  I  may  begin  by 
saying  that  it  is  not  very  clear.  A  thousand  years  ago  a* 
monk,  robed  in  black,  wandered  in  the  wilderness — some 
where  in  Syria  or  Arabia.  .  .  .  Some  miles  away  the  fisher 
men  saw  another  black  monk  moving  slowly  over  the  surface 
of  the  lake.  The  second  monk  was  a  mirage.  Now  put  out 
of  your  mind  all  the  laws  of  optics,  which  legend,  of  course, 
does  not  recognise,  and  listen.  From  the  first  mirage  was 
produced  another  mirage,  from  the  second,  a  third,  so 
that  the  image  of  the  Black  Monk  is  eternally  reflected  from 
one  stratum  of  the  atmosphere  to  another.  At  one  time 
it  was  seen  in  Africa,  then  in  Spain,  then  in  India,  then  in  th^ 
Far  North.  At  last  it  issued  from  the  limits  of  the  earth's 
atmosphere,  but  never  came  across  conditions  which  would 
cause  it  to  disappear.  Maybe  it  is  seen  to-day  in  Mars 
or  in  the  constellation  of  the  Southern  Cross.  Now  the 
whole  point,  the  very  essence  of  the  legend,  lies  in  the  pre 
diction  that  exactly  a  thousand  years  after  the  monk  went 
into  the  wilderness,  the  mirage  will  again  be  cast  into  the 
atmosphere  of  the  earth  and  show  itself  to  the  world  of 
men.  This  term  of  a  thousand  years,  it  appears,  is  now 
expiring.  .  .  .  According  to  the  legend  we  must  expect  the 
Black  Monk  to-day  or  to-morrow." 

"It  is  a  strange  story,"  said  Tanya,  whom  the  legend  did 
not  please. 

"But  the  most  astonishing  thing,"  laughed  Kovrin,  "is 
that  I  cannot  remember  how  this  legend  came  into  my  head. 


50  ROTHSCHILD'S  FIDDLE 

Did  I  read  it?  Did  I  hear  it?  Or  can  it  be  that  I  dreamed 
of  the  Black  Monk?  I  cannot  remember.  But  the  legend 
interests  me.  All  day  long  I  thought  of  nothing  else." 

Releasing  Tanya,  who  returned  to  her  visitors,  he  went 
out  of  the  house,  and  walked  lost  in  thought  beside  the 
flower-beds.  Already  the  sun  was  setting.  The  freshly 
watered  flowers  exhaled  a  damp,  irritating  smell.  In  the 
house  the  music  had  again  begun,  and  from  the  distance  the 
violin  produced  the  effect  of  a  human  voice.  Straining  his 
memory  in  an  attempt  to  recall  where  he  had  heard  the 
legend,  Kovrin  walked  slowly  across  the  park,  and  then, 
not  noticing  where  he  went,  to  the  river-bank. 

By  the  path  which  ran  down  among  the  uncovered  roots 
to  the  water's  edge  Kovrin  descended,  frightening  the  snipe, 
and  disturbing  two  ducks.  On  the  dark  pine  trees  glowed  the 
rays  of  the  setting  sun,  but  on  the  surface  of  the  river 
darkness  had  already  fallen.  Kovrin  crossed  the  stream. 
Before  him  now  lay  a  broad  field  covered  with  young  rye. 
Neither  human  dwelling  nor  human  soul  was  visible  in  the 
distance;  and  it  seemed  that  the  path  must  lead  to  the 
unexplored,  enigmatical  region  in  the  west  where  the  sun 
had  already  set — where  still,  vast  and  majestic,  flamed  the 
afterglow. 

"How  open  it  is — how  peaceful  and  free?"  thought  Kovrin, 
walking  along  the  path.  "It  scorns  as  if  all  the  world  is 
looking  at  me  from  a  hiding-place  and  waiting  for  me  to 
comprehend  it." 

A  wave  passed  over  the  rye,  and  the  light  evening  breeze 
blew  softly  on  his  uncovered  head.  Yet  a  minute  more  and 
the  breeze  blew  again,  this  time  more  strongly,  the  rye 
rustled,  and  from  behind  came  the  dull  murmur  of  the  pines. 
Kovrin  stopped  in  amazement.  On  the  horizon,  like  a 
cyclone  or  waterspout,  a  great,  black  pillar  rose  up  from 
earth  to  heaven.  Its  outlines  were  undefined;  but  from 
the  first  it  might  be  seen  that  it  was  not  standing  still,  but 
moving  with  inconceivable  speed  towards  Kovrin;  and  the 
nearer  it  came  the  smaller  and  smaller  it  grew.  Involun- 


THE  BLACK  MONK  51 

tarily  Kovrin  rushed  aside  and  made  a  path  for  it.  A  monk 
in  black  clothing,  with  grey  hair  and  black  eyebrows,  cross 
ing  his  hands  upon  his  chest,  was  borne  past.  His  bare  feet 
were  above  the  ground.  Having  swept  some  twenty  yards 
past  Kovrin,  he  locked  at  him,  nodded  his  head,  and  smiled 
kindly  and  at  the  same  time  slyly.  His  face  was  pale  and 
thin.  When  he  had  passed  by  Kovrin  he  again  began  to 
grow,  flew  across  the  river,  struck  inaudibly  against  the  clay 
bank  and  pine  trees,  and,  passing  through  them,  vanished 
like  smoke. 

"You  see,"  stammered  Kovrin,  "after  all,  the  legend  was 
true!" 

Making  no  attempt  to  explain  this  strange  phenomenon; 
satisfied  with  the  fact  that  he  had  so  closely  and  so  plainly 
seen  not  only  the  black  clothing  but  even  the  face  and  eyes 
of  the  monk;  agitated  agreeably,  he  returned  home. 

In  the  park  and  in  the  garden  visitors  were  walking 
quietly;  in  the  house  the  music  continued.  So  he  alone  had 
seen  the  Black  Monk.  He  felt  a  strong  desire  to  tell  what 
he  had  seen  to  Tanya  and  Yegor  Semionovich,  but  feared 
that  they  would  regard  it  as  an  hallucination,  and  decided  to 
keep  his  counsel.  He  laughed  loudly,  sang,  danced  a  ma 
zurka,  and  felt  in  the  best  of  spirits;  and  the  guests  and 
Tanya  noticed  upon  his  face  a  peculiar  expression  of  ecstasy 
and  inspiration,  and  found  him  very  interesting. 


Ill 

When  supper  was  over  and  the  visitors  had  gone,  he  went 
to  his  own  room,  and  lay  on  the  sofa.  He  wished  to  think 
of  the  monk.  But  in  a  few  minutes  Tanya  entered. 

"There,  Andriusha,  you  can  read  father's  articles  .  .  ." 
she  said.  "They  are  splendid  articles.  He  writes  very 
well." 

"Magnificent!"  said  Yegor  Semionovich,  coming  in  after 
her,  with  a  forced  smile.  "Don't  listen  to  her,  please!  .  .  . 


52  ROTHSCHILD'S  FIDDLE 

Or  read  them  only  if  you  want  to  go  to  sleep — they  are 
a  splendid  soporific." 

"In  my  opinion  they  are  magnificent,"  said  Tanya,  deeply 
convinced.  "Read  them,  Andriusha,  and  persuade  father  to 
write  more  often.  He  could  write  a  whole  treatise  on 
gardening." 

Yegor  Semionovich  laughed,  blushed,  and  stammered  out 
the  conventional  phrases  used  bv  abashed  authors.  At  last 
he  gave  in. 

"If  you  must  read  them,  read  first  these  papers  of 
Gauche's,  and  the  Russian  articles,"  he  stammered,  picking 
out  the  papers  with  trembling  hands.  "Otherwise  you  won't 
understand  them.  Before  you  read  my  replies  you  must 
know  what  I  am  replying  to.  But  it  won't  interest  you 
.  .  .  stupid.  And  it's  time  for  bed." 

Tanya  went  out.  Yegor  Semionovich  sat  on  the  end  of 
the  sofa  and  sighed  loudly. 

"Akh,  brother  mine  .  .  ."he  began  after  a  long  silence. 
"So  you  see,  my  dear  Magister,  I  write  articles,  and  exhibit 
at  shows,  and  get  medals  sometimes.  .  .  .  Pesotzky,  they 
say,  has  apples  as  big  as  your  head.  .  .  .  Pesotzky  has  made 
a  fortune  out  of  his  gardens.  .  .  In  one  word: 

"  'Rich  and  glorious  is   Kochubey.' " 

"But  I  should  like  to  ask  you  what  is  going  to  be  the 
end  of  all  this?  The  gardens — there  is  no  question  of  that 
— are  splendid,  they  are  models.  .  .  .  Not  gardens  at  all, 
in  short,  but  a  whole  institution  of  high  political  importance, 
and  a  step  towards  a  new  era  in  Russian  agriculture  and 
Russian  industry.  .  .  .  But  for  what  purpose?  What  ulti- 
made  object?" 

"That  question  is  easily  answered." 

"I  do  not  mean  in  that  sense.  What  I  want  to  know  is 
what  will  happen  with  the  garden  when  I  die?  As  things 
are,  it  would  not  last  without  me  a  single  month.  The  secret 
does  not  lie  in  the  fact  that  the  garden  is  big  and  the  workers 


THE  BLACK  MONK  5;; 

many,  but  in  the  fact  that  JJ^ye  the  work — you  understand? 
I  love  it,  perhaps,  jnore_  than  l"Tove~myself .  Just  look  at 
me!  I  work  from  morning  to  fflghT  I  do  everything  with 
my  own  hands.  All  grafting,  all  pruning,  all  planting — 
everything  is  done  by  me.  When  I  am  helped  I  feel  jealous,, 
and  get  irritated  to  the  point  of  rudeness.  The  whole  secret 
is  in  love,  in  a  sharp  master's  eye,  in  a  master's  hands,  and 
in  the  feeling  when  I  drive  over  to  a  friend  and  sit  down  foi 
half  an  hour,  that  I  have  left  my  heart  behind  me  and  am 
not  myself — all  the  time  I  am  in  dread  that  something  has 
happened  to  the  garden.  Now  suppose  I  die  to-morrow,  who 
will  replace  all  this?  Who  will  do  the  work?  The  head 
gardeners?  The  workmen?  Why  the  whole  burden  of 
my  present  worries  is  that  my  greatest  enemy  is  not  the 
hare  or  the  beetle  or  the  frost,  but  the  hands  of  the 
stranger." 

"But  Tanya?"  said  Kovrin,  laughing.  "Surely  she  is  not 
more  dangerous  than  a  hare?  .  .  .  She  loves  and  understands 
the  work." 

"Yes,  Tanya  loves  it  and  understands  it.  If  after  my 
death  the  garden  should  fall  to  her  as  mistress,  then  I  could 
wish  for  nothing  better.  But  suppose — which  God  forbid — 
she  should  marry!"  Yegor  Semionovich  whispered  and 
looked  at  Kovrin  with  frightened  eyes.  "That's  the  whole 
crux.  She  might  marry,  there  would  be  children,  and  there 
would  be  no  time  to  attend  to  the  garden.  That  is  bad 
enough.  But  what  I  fear  most  of  all  is  that  she  may  marry 
some  spendthrift  who  is  always  in  want  of  money,  who  will 
lease  the  garden  to  tradesmen,  and  the  whole  thing  will  go 
to  the  devil  in  the  first  year.  In  a  business  like  this  a 
woman  is  the  scourge  of  God." 

Yegor  Semionovich  sighed  and  was  silent  for  a  few 
minutes. 

"Perhaps  you  may  call  it  egoism.  But  I  do  not  want 
Tanya  to  marry.  I  am  afraid!  You've  seen  that  fop  who 
comes  along  with  a  fiddle  and  makes  a  noise.  I  know  Tanya 
would  never  marry  him,  yet  I  cannot  bear  the  sight  of  him. 


54  ROTHSCHILD'S  FIDDLE 

...  In  short,  brother,  I  am  a  character  .  .  .  and  I  kno\f 
it." 

Yegor  Semionovich  rose  and  walked  excitedly  up  and 
down  the  room.  It  was  plain  that  he  had  something  very 
serious  to  say,  but  could  not  bring  himself  to  4he  point. 

"I  love  you  too  sincerely  not  to  talk  to  you  frankly,"  he 
said,  thrusting  his  hands  into  his  pockets.  "In  all  delicate 
questions  I  say  what  I  think,  and  dislike  mystification.  I 
tell  you  plainly,  therefore,  that  you  are  the  only  man  whom 
I  should  not  be  afraid  of ,  Tanya  marrying.  You  are  a 
clever  man,  you  have  a  heart,  and  you  would  not  see  my 
life's  work  ruined.  And  what  is  more,  I  love  you  as  my 
own  son  .  .  .  and  am  proud  of  you.  So  if  you  and  Tanya 
were  to  end  ...  in  a  sort  of  romance  ...  I  should  be 
very  glad  and  very  happy.  I  tell  you  this  straight  to 
your  face,  without  shame,  as  becomes  an  honest  man." 

Kovrin  smiled.  Yegor  Semionovich  opened  the  door,  and 
was  leaving  the  room,  but  stopped  suddenly  on  the  threshold. 

"And  if  you  and  Tanya  had  a  son,  I  could  make  a  horti 
culturist  out  of  him,"  he  added.  "But  that  is  an  idle  fancy. 
Goodnight!" 

Left  alone,  Kovrin  settled  himself  comfortably,  and  took 
up  his  host's  articles.  The  first  was  entitled  "Intermediate 
Culture,"  the  second  "A  Few  Words  in  Reply  to  the  Re 
marks  of  Mr.  Z.  about  the  Treatment  of  the  Soil  of  a 
New  Garden,"  the  third  "More  about  Grafting."  The  others 
were  similar  in  scope.  But  all  breathed  restlessness  and 
sickly  irritation.  Even  a  paper  with  the  peaceful  title  of 
"Russian  Apple  Trees"  exhaled  irritability.  Yegor  Semiono 
vich  began  with  the  words  "Audi  alteram  partem,"  and  ended 
it  with  "Sapienti  sat";  and  between  these  learned  quotations 
flowed  a  whole  torrent  of  acid  words  directed  against  "the 
learned  ignorance  of  our  patent  horticulturists  who  observe 
nature  from  their  academic  chairs,"  and  against  M.  Gauch£, 
"whose  fame  is  founded  on  the  admiration  of  the  profane 
and  dttletanti"  And  finally  Kovrin  came  across  an  un 
called-for  and  quite  insincere  expression  of  regret  that  it 


THE  BLACK  MONK  55 

is  no  longer  legal  to  flog  peasants  who  are  caught  stealing 
fruit  and  injuring  trees. 

"His  is  good  work,  wholesome  and  fascinating,"  thought 
Kovrin,  "yet  in  these  pamphlets  we  have  nothing  but  bad 
temper  and  war  to  the  knife.  I  suppose  it  is  the  same 
everywhere;  in  all  careers  men  of  ideas  are  nervous,  and 
victims  of  this  kind  of  exalted  sensitiveness.  I  suppose  it 
must  be  so." 

He  thought  of  Tanya,  so  delighted  with  her  father's  arti 
cles,  and  then  of  Yegor  Semionovich.  Tanya,  small,  pale, 
and  slight,  with  her  collar-bone  showing,  with  her  wildly- 
opened,  her  dark  and  clever  eyes,  which  it  seemed  were 
always  searching  for  something.  And  Yegor  Semionovich 
with  his  little,  hurried  steps.  He  thought  again  of  Tanya, 
fond  of  talking,  fond  of  argument,  and  always  accompany 
ing  even  the  most  insignificant  phrases  with  mimicry  and 
gesticulation.  Nervous — she  must  be  nervous  in  the  highest 
degree. 

Again  Kovrin  began  to  read,  but  he  understood  nothing, 
and  threw  down  his  books.  The  agreeable  emotion  with 
which  he  had  danced  the  mazurka  and  listened  to  the  music 
still  held-  possession  of  him,  and  aroused  a  multitude  of 
thoughts.  It  flashed  upon  him  that  if  this  strange,  unnatu 
ral  monk  had  been  seen  by  him  alone,  he  must  be  ill,  ill 
to  the  point  of  suffering  from  hallucinations.  The  thought 
frightened  him,  but  not  for  long. 

He  sat  on  the  sofa,  and  held  his  head  in  his  nands,  curbing 
the  inexplicable  joy  which  filled  his  whole  being;  and  then 
walked  up  and  down  the  room  for  a  minute,  and  returned  to 
his  work.  But  the  thoughts  which  he  read  in  books  no 
longer  satisfied  him.  He  longed  for  something  vast,  infinite, 
astonishing.  Toward  morning  he  undressed  and  went  un 
willingly  to  bed;  he  felt  that  he  had  better  rest.  When  at 
last  he  heard  Yegor  Semionovich  going  to  his  work  in  the 
garden,  he  rang,  and  ordered  the  servant  to  bring  him  some 
wine.  He  drank  several  glasses;  his  consciousness  became 
dim,  and  he  slept. 


56  ROTHSCHILD'S  FIDDLE 

IV 

Yegor  Semionovich  and  Tanya  often  quarrelled  and  said 
disagreeable  things  to  one  another.  This  morning  they  had 
both  been  irritated,  and  Tanya  burst  out  crying  and  went 
to  her  room,  coming  down  neither  to  dinner  nor  to  tea.  At 
first  Yegor  Semionovich  marched  about,  solemn  and  digni 
fied,  as  if  wishing  to  give  everyone  to  understand  that  for 
him  justice  and  order  were  the  supreme  interests  in  life. 
But  he  was  unable  to  keep  this  up  for  long;  his  spirits  fell, 
and  he  wandered  about  the  park  and  sighed,  "Akh,  my  God! " 
At  dinner  he  ate  nothing,  and  at  last,  tortured  by  his  con 
science,  he  knocked  softly  at  the  closed  door,  and  called 
timidly: 

'Tanya!     Tanya!" 

Through  the  door  came  a  weak  voice,  tearful  but  deter 
mined: 

"Leave  me  alone!   ...  I  implore  you." 

The  misery  of  father  and  daughter  reacted  on  the  whole 
household,  even  on  the  labourers  in  the  garden.  Kovrin,  as 
usual,  was  immersed  in  his  own  interesting  work,  but  at 
last  even  he  felt  tired  and  uncomfortable.  He  determined  to 
interfere,  and  disperse  the  cloud  before  evening.  He  knocked 
at  Tanya's  door,  and  was  admitted. 

"Come,  come!  What  a  shame!"  he  began  jokingly;  and 
then  looked  with  surprise  at  her  tear-stained  and  afflicted  face 
covered  with  red  spots.  "Is  it  so  serious,  then?  Well,  well! " 

"But  if  you  knew  how  he  tortured  me!"  she  said,  and  a 
flood  of  tears  gushed  out  of  her  big  eyes.  "He  tormented 
me!"  she  continued,  wringing  her  hands.  "I  never  said  a 
word  to  him.  ...  I  only  said  there  was  no  need  to  keep 
unnecessary  labourers,  if  ...  if  we  can  get  day  workmen. 
.  .  ,  You  know  the  men  have  done  nothing  for  the  whole 
week.  I  ...  I  only  said  this,  and  he  roared  at  me,  and 
said  a  lot  of  things  .  .  most  offensive  .  .  .  deeply  insult 
ing.  And  all  for  nothing." 

"Never  mind! "  said  Kovrin,  straightening  her  hair.     "You 


THE  BLACK  MONK  57 

have  had  your  scoldings  and  your  cryings,  and  that  is  surely 
enough.  You  can't  keep  up  this  for  ever  ...  it  is  not  right 
...  all  the  more  since  you  know  he  loves  you  infinitely." 

"He  has  ruined  my  whole  life,"  sobbed  Tanya.  "I  never 
hear  anything  but  insults  and  affronts.  He  regards  me  as 
superfluous  in  his  own  house.  Let  him!  He  will  have 
cause!  I  shall  leave  here  to-morrow,  and  study  for  a  posi 
tion  as  telegraphist.  .  .  .  Let  him!" 

"Come,  come.  Stop  crying,  Tanya.  It  does  you  no 
good.  .  .  .  You  are  both  irritable  and  impulsive,  and  both 
in  the  wrong.  Come,  and  I  will  make  peace!" 

Kovrin  spoke  gently  and  persuasively,  But  Tanya  con 
tinued  to  cry,  twitching  her  shoulders  and  wringing  her. 
hands  as  if  she  had  been  overtaken  by  a  real  misfortune. 
Kovrin  felt  all  the  sorrier  owing  to  the  smallness  of  the 
cause  of  her  sorrow.  What  a  trifle  it  took  to  make  this 
little  creature  unhappy  for  a  whole  day,  or,  as  she  had  ex 
pressed  it,  for  a  whole  life!  And  as  he  consoled  Tanya, 
it  occurred  to  him  that  except  this  girl  and  her  father  there 
was  not  one  in  the  world  who  loved  him  as  a  kinsman;  and 
had  it  not  been  for  them,  he,  left  fatherless  and  motherless 
in  early  childhood,  must  have  lived  his  whole  life  without 
feeling  one  sincere  caress,  or  tasting  ever  that  simple,  un 
reasoning  love  which  we  feel  only  for  those  akin  to  us  by 
blood.  And  he  felt  that  his  tired,  strained  nerves,  like  mag 
nets,  responded  to  the  nerves  of  this  crying,  shuddering 
girl.  He  felt,  too,  that  he  could  never  love  a  healthy,  rosy- 
cheeked  woman;  but  pale,  weak,  unhappy  Tanya  appealed 
to  him. 

He  felt  pleasure  in  looking  at  her  hair  and  her  shoulders; 
and  he  pressed  her  hand,  and  wiped  away  her  tears.  ...  At 
last  she  ceased  crying.  But  she  still  continued  to  complain 
of  her  father,  and  of  her  insufferable  life  at  home,  imploring 
Kovrin  to  try  to  realise  her  position.  Then  by  degrees 
she  began  to  smile,  and  to  sigh  that  God  had  cursed  her 
with  such  a  wicked  temper;  and  in  the  end  laughed  aloud, 
called  herself  a  fool,  and  ran  out  of  the  room. 


58  ROTHSCHILD'S  FIDDLE 

A  little  later  Kovrin  went  into  the  garden.  Yegor 
Semionovich  and  Tanya,  as  if  notning  had  happened,  were 
walking  side  by  side  up  the  alley,  eating  rye-bread  and  salt 
Both  were  very  hungry. 


Pleased  with  his  success  as  peacemaker,  Kovrin  went  into 
the  park.  As  he  sat  on  a  bench  and  mused,  he  heard  the 
rattle  of  a  carriage  and  a  woman's  laugh — visitors  evidently 
again.  Shadows  fell  in  the  garden,  the  sound  of  a  violin, 
the  music  of  a  woman's  voice  reached  him  almost  inaudibly; 
?and  this  reminded  him  of  the  Black  Monk.  Whither,  to 
what  country,  to  what  planet,  had  that  optical  absurdity 
flown? 

Hardly  had  he  called  to  mind  the  legend  and  painted  in 
imagination  the  black  apparition  in  the  rye-field  when  from 
behind  the  pine  trees  opposite  to  him,  walked  inaudibly — 
without  the  faintest  rustling — a  man  of  middle  height. 
His  grey  head  was  uncovered,  he  was  dressed  in  black,  and 
barefooted  like  a  beggar.  On  his  pallid,  corpse-like  face 
stood  out  sharply  a  number  of  black  spots.  Nodding  his 
head  politely  the  stranger  or  beggar  walked  noiselessely  to 
the  bench  and  sat  down,  and  Kovrin  recognised  the  Black 
Monk.  For  a  minute  they  looked  at  one  another,  Kovrin 
with  astonishment,  but  the  monk  kindly  and,  as,  before,  with 
a  sly  expression  on  his  face. 

"But  you  are  a  mirage,"  said  Kovrin.  "Why  are  you 
here,  and  why  do  you  sit  in  one  place?  That  is  not  in  ac 
cordance  with  the  legend." 

"It  is  all  the  same,"  replied  the  monk  softly,  turning  his 
face  toward  Kovrin.  "The  legend,  the  mirage,  I — all  are 
products  of  your  own  excited  imagination.  I  am  a  phan 
tom." 

"That  is  to  say  you  don't  exist?"  asked  Kovrin. 

"Think  as  you  like,"  replied  the  monk,  smiling  faintly. 


THE  BLACK  MONK  59 

"I  exist  in  your  imagination,  and  as  your  imagination  is  a 
part  of  Nature,  I  must  exist  also  in  Nature." 

"You  have  a  clever,  a  distinguished  face — it  seems  to  me 
as  if  in  reality  you  had  lived  more  than  a  thousand  years," 
said  Kovrin.  "I  did  not  know  that  my  imagination  was 
capable  of  creating  such  a  phenomenon.  Why  do  you  look 
at  me  with  such  rapture?  Are  you  pleased  with  me?" 

"Yes.  For  you  are  one  of  the  few  who  can  justly  be  named 
the  elected  of  God.  You  serve  eternal  truth.  Your  thoughts, 
your  intentions,  your  astonishing  science,  all  your  life  bear 
the  stamp  of  divinity,  a  heavenly  impress ;  they  are  dedicated 
to  the  rational  and  the  beautiful,  and  that  is,  to  the  Eternal." 

"You  say,  to  eternal  truth.  Then  can  eternal  truth  be 
accessible  and  necessary  to  men  if  there  is  no  eternal 
life?" 

"There  is  eternal  life,"  said  the  monk. 

"You  believe  in  the  immortality  of  men." 

"Of  course.  For  you,  men,  there  awaits  a  great  and  a 
beautiful  future.  And  the  more  the  world  has  of  men  like 
you  the  nearer  will  this  future  be  brought.  Without  you, 
ministers  to  the  highest  principles,  living  freely  and  con 
sciously,  humanity  would  be  nothing;  developing  in  the  nat 
ural  order  it  must  wait  the  end  of  its  earthly  history.  But 
you,  by  some  thousands  of  years,  hasten  it  into  the  kingdom 
of  eternal  truth — and  in  this  is  your  high  service.  You  em 
body  in  yourself  the  blessing  of  God  which  rested  upon  the 
people." 

"And  what  is  the  object  of  eternal  life?"  asked  Kovrin. 

"The  same  as  all  life — enjoyment.  True  enjoyment  is  in 
knowledge,  and  eternal  life  presents  innumerable,  inexhaust 
ible  fountains  of  knowledge;  it  is  in  this  sense  it  was  said: 
'In  My  Father's  house  are  many  mansions.  .  .  .'  " 

"You  cannot  conceive  what  a  joy  it  is  to  me  to  listen  to 
you,"  said  Kovrin,  rubbing  his  hands  with  delight. 

"I  am  glad." 

"Yet  I  know  that  when  you  leave  me  I  shall  be  tor 
mented  by  doubt  as  to  your  reality.  You  are  a  phantom,  a 


60  ROTHSCHILD'S  FIDDLE 

hallucination.  But  that  means  that  I  am  physically  dis 
eased,  that  I  am  not  in  a  normal  state?" 

"What  if  you  are?  That  need  not  worry  you.  You  are 
ill  because  you  have  overstrained  your  powers,  because  you 
have  borne  your  health  in  sacrifice  to  one  idea,  and  the  time 
is  near  when  you  will  sacrifice  not  merely  it  but  your  life 
also.  What  more  could  you  desire?  It  is  what  all  gifted 
and  noble  natures  aspire  to." 

"But  if  I  am  physically  diseased,  how  can  I  trust  myself?" 

"And  how  do  you  know  that  the  men  of  genius  whom  all 
the  world  trusts  have  not  also  seen  visions?  Genius,  they 
tell  you  now,  is  akin  to  insanity.  Believe  me,  the  healthy 
and  the  normal  are  but  ordinary  men — the  herd.  Fears  as  to 
a  nervous  age,  over-exhaustion  and  degeneration  can  trouble 
seriously  only  those  whose  aims  in  life  lie  in  the  present — 
that  is  the  herd." 

"The  Romans  had  as  their  ideal:  mens  sana  in  cor  pore 
sano." 

"All  that  the  Greeks  and  Romans  said  is  not  true.  Ex 
altations,  aspirations,  excitements,  ecstacies — all  those  things 
which  distinguish  poets,  prophets,  martyrs  to  ideas  from 
ordinary  men  are  incompatible  with  the  animal  life,  that  is, 
with  physical  health.  I  repeat,  if  you  wish  to  be  healthy 
and  normal  go  with  the  herd." 

"How  strange  that  you  should  repeat  what  I  myself  have 
so  often  thought!"  said  Kovrin.  "It  seems  as  if  you  had 
watched  me  and  listened  to  my  secret  thoughts.  But  do 
not  talk  about  me.  What  do  you  imply  by  the  words: 
eternal  truth?" 

The  monk  made  no  answer.  Kovrin  looked  at  him,  but 
could  not  make  out  his  face.  His  features  clouded  and 
melted  away ;  his  head  and  arms  disappeared ;  his  body  faded 
into  the  bench  and  into  the  twilight,  and  vanished 
utterly. 

"The  hallucination  has  gone,"  said  Kovrin,  laughing.  "It 
is  a  pity." 

He  returned  to  the  house  lively  and  happy.     What  the 


THE  BLACK  MONK  61 

Black  Monk  had  said  to  him  flattered,  not  his  self-love,  but 
his  soul,  his  whole  being.  To  be  the  elected,  to  minister  to 
eternal  truth,  to  stand  in  the  ranks  of  those  who  hasten  by 
thousands  of  years  the  making  mankind  worthy  of  the  king 
dom  of  Christ,  to  deliver  humanity  from  thousands  of  years 
of  struggle,  sin,  and  suffering,  to  give  to  one  idea  everything, 
youth,  strength,  health,  to  die  for  the  general  welfare — what 
an  exalted,  what  a  glorious  ideal!  And  when  through  his 
memory  flowed  his  past  life,  a  life  pure  and  chaste  and  full 
of  labour,  when  he  remembered  what  he  had  learnt  and  what 
he  had  taught,  he  concluded  that  in  the  words  of  the  monk 
there  was  no  exaggeration. 

Through  the  park,  to  meet  him,  came  Tanya.  She  was 
wearing  a  different  dress  from  that  in  which  he  had  last  seen 
her. 

"You  here?"  she  cried.  "We  were  looking  for  you,  look 
ing  ...  But  what  has  happened?"  she  asked  in  surprise, 
looking  into  his  glowing,  enraptured  face,  and  into  his  eyes, 
now  full  of  tears.  "How  strange  you  are,  Andriusha!" 

"I  am  satisfied,  Tanya,"  said  Kovrin,  laying  his  hand  upon 
her  shoulder.  "I  am  more  than  satisfied;  I  am  happy! 
Tanya,  dear  Tanya,  you  are  inexpressibly  dear  to  me. 
Tanya,  I  am  so  glad!" 

He  kissed  both  her  hands  warmly,  and  continued: 

"I  have  just  lived  through  the  brightest,  most  wonderful, 
most  unearthly  moments.  .  .  .  But  I  cannot  tell  you  all, 
for  you  would  call  me  mad,  or  refuse  to  believe  me.  .  .  .  Let 
me  speak  of  you!  Tanya,  I  love  you,  and  have  long  loved 
you.  To  have  you  near  me,  to  meet  you  ten  times  a  day,  has 
become  a  necessity  for  me.  I  do  not  know  how  I  shall  live 
without  you  when  I  go  home." 

"No ! "  laughed  Tanya.  "You  will  forget  us  all  in  two  days. 
We  are  little  people,  and  you  are  a  great  man." 

"Let  us  talk  seriously,"  said  he.  "I  will  take  you  with 
me,  Tanya!  Yes?  You  will  come?  You  will  be  mine?" 

Tanya  cried  "What?"  and  tried  to  laugh  again.  But  the 
laugh  did  not  come,  and,  instead,  red  spots  stood  out  on  her 


62  ROTHSCHILD'S  FIDDLE 

cheeks.  She  breathed  quickly,  and  walked  on  rapidly  into 
the  park. 

"I  did  not  think  ...  I  never  thought  of  this  .  .  .  never 
thought,"  she  said,  pressing  her  hands  together  as  if  in  de 
spair. 

But  Kovrin  hastened  after  her,  and,  with  the  same  glowing, 
enraptured  face,  continued  to  speak. 

"I  wish  for  a  love  which  will  take  possession  of  me  alto 
gether,  and  this  love  only  you,  Tanya,  can  give  me.  I  am 
happy!  How  happy!" 

She  was  overcome,  bent,  withered  up,  and  seemed  suddenly 
to  have  aged  ten  years.  But  Kovrin  found  her  beautiful,  and 
loudly  expressed  his  ecstasy: 

"How  lovely  she  is!" 

VI 

When  he  learned  from  Kovrin  that  not  only  had  a  romance 
resulted,  but  that  a  wedding  was  to  follow,  Yegor  Semiono- 
vich  walked  from  corner  to  corner,  and  tried  to  conceal  his 
agitation.  His  hands  shook,  his  neck  seemed  swollen  and 
purple;  he  ordered  the  horses  to  be  put  into  his  racmg 
droshky,  and  drove  away.  Tanya,  seeing  how  he  whipped 
the  horses  and  how  he  pushed  his  cap  down  over  his  ears, 
understood  his  mood,  locked  herself  into  her  room,  and  cried 
all  day. 

In  the  orangery  the  peaches  and  plums  were  already  ripe. 
The  packing  and  despatch  to  Moscow  of  such  a  delicate 
load  required  much  attention,  trouble,  and  bustle.  Owing 
to  the  heat  of  the  summer  every  tree  had  to  be  watered; 
the  process  was  costly  in  time  and  working-power ;  and  many 
caterpillars  appeared,  which  the  workmen,  and  even  Yegor 
Semionovich  and  Tanya,  crushed  with  their  fingers,  to  the 
great  disgust  of  Kovrin.  The  autumn  orders  for  fruit  and 
trees  had  to  be  attendee!  to,  and  a  vast  correspondence  car 
ried  on.  And  at  the  very  busiest  time,  when  it  seemed  no 
one  had  a  free  moment,  work  began  in  the  fields  and  deprived 


THE  BLACK  MONK  63 

the  garden  of  half  its  workers.  Yegor  Semionovich,  very 
sunburnt,  very  irritated,  and  very  worried,  galloped  about, 
now  to  the  garden,  now  to  the  fields;  and  all  the  time  shouted 
that  they  were  tearing  him  to  bits,  and  that  he  would  put 
a  bullet  through  his  brain. 

On  top  of  all  came  the  bustle  over  Tanya's  trousseau,  to 
which  the  Pesotskys  attributed  infinite  significance.  With  the 
eternal  snipping  of  scissors,  rattle  of  sewing-machines,  smell 
of  flat-irons,  and  the  caprices  of  the  nervous  and  touchy  dress 
maker,  the  whole  house  seemed  to  spin  around.  And,  to 
make  matters  worse,  visitors  arrived  every  day,  and  these 
visitors  had  to  be  amused,  fed,  and  lodged  for  the  night. 
Yet  work  and  worry  passed  unnoticed  in  a  mist  of  joy. 
Tanya  felt  as  if  love  and  happiness  had  suddenly  burst  upon 
her,  although  ever  since  her  fourteenth  year  she  had  been 
certain  that  Kovrin  would  marry  nobody  but  herself.  She 
was  eternally  in  a  state  of  astonishment,  doubt,  and  disbe 
lief  in  herself.  At  one  moment  she  was  seized  by  such  great 
joy  that  she  felt  she  must  fly  away  to  the  clouds  and  pray 
to  God;  but  a  moment  later  she  remembered  that  when 
August  came  she  would  have  to  leave  the  home  of  her  child 
hood  and  forsake  her  father;  and  she  was  frightened  by 
the  thought — God  knows  whence  it  came — that  she  was 
trivial,  insignificant,  and  unworthy  of  a  great  man  like 
Kovrin.  When  such  thoughts  came  she  would  run  up  to  her 
room,  lock  herself  in,  and  cry  bitterly  for  hours.  But  when 
visitors  were  present,  it  broke  in  upon  her  that  Kovrin  was 
a  singularly  handsome  man,  that  all  the  women  loved  him 
and  envied  her;  and  in  these  moments  her  heart  was  as  full 
of  rapture  and  pride  as  if  she  had  conquered  the  whole  world. 
When  he  dared  to  smile  on  any  other  woman  she  trembled 
with  jealousy,  went  to  her  room,  and  again — tears.  These 
new  feelings  possessed  her  altogether;  she  helped  her  father 
mechanically,  noticing  neither  papers  nor  caterpillars,  nor 
workmen,  nor  how  swiftly  time  was  passing  by. 

Yegor  Semionovich  was  in  much  the  same  state  of  mind. 
He  still  worked  from  morning  to  night,  flew  about  the  gar- 


64  ROTHSCHILD'S  FIDDLE 

dens,  and  lost  his  temper;  but  all  the  while  he  was  wrapped 
in  a  magic  reverie.  In  his  sturdy  body  contended  two  men, 
one  the  real  Yegor  Semionovich,  who,  when  he  listened  to 
the  gardener,  Ivan  Karlovich's  report  of  some  mistake  or 
disorder,  went  mad  with  excitement,  and  tore  his  hair;  and 
the  other  the  unreal  Yegor  Semionovich — a  half-intoxicated 
old  man,  who  broke  off  an  important  conversation  in  the 
middle  of  a  word,  seized  the  gardener  by  the  shoulder,  and 
stammered: 

"You  may  say  what  you  like,  but  blood  is  thicker  than 
water.  His  mother  was  an  astonishing,  a  most  noble,  a  most 
brilliant  woman.  It  was  a  pleasure  to  see  her  good,  pure, 
open,  angel  face.  She  painted  beautifully,  wrote  poetry, 
spoke  five  foreign  languages,  and  sang.  .  .  .  Poor  thing, 
Heaven  rest  her  soul,  she  died  of  consumption!" 

The  unreal  Yegor  Semionovich  sighed,  and  after  a  mo 
ment's  silence  continued: 

"When  he  was  a  boy  growing  up  to  manhood  in  my  house 
he  had  just  such  an  angel  face,  open  and  good.  His  looks, 
his  movements,  his  words  were  as  gentle  and  graceful  as 
his  mother's.  And  his  intellect!  It  is  not  for  nothing  he 
has  the  degree  of  Magister.  But  you  just  wait,  Ivan  Karlo- 
vich;  you'll  see  what  he'll  be  in  ten  years'  time.  Why,  he'll 
be  out  of  sight ! " 

But  here  the  real  Yegor  Semionovich  remembered  himself, 
seized  his  head  and  roared: 

"Devils!  Frost-bitten!  Ruined,  destroyed!  The  gar 
den  is  ruined;  the  garden  is  destroyed!" 

Kovrin  worked  with  all  his  former  ardour,  and  hardly 
noticed  the  bustle  about  him.  Love  only  poured  oil  on 
the  flames.  After  every  meeting  with  Tanya,  he  returned 
to  his  rooms  in  rapture  and  happiness,  and  set  to  work  with 
his  books  and  manuscripts  with  the  same  passion  with  which 
he  had  kissed  her  and  sworn  his  love.  What  the  Black 
Monk  had  told  him  of  his  election  by  God,  of  eternal  truth, 
and  of  the  glorious  future  of  humanity,  gave  to  all  his  work 
i  peculiar,  unusual  significance.  Once  or  twice  every  week. 


THE  BLACK  MONK  65 

either  in  the  park  or  in  the  house,  he  met  the  monk,  and 
talked  with  him  for  hours;  but  this  did  not  frighten,  but  on 
the  contrary  delighted  him,  for  he  was  now  assured  that  such 
apparitions  visit  only  the  elect  and  exceptional  who  dedicate 
themselves  to  the  ministry  of  ideas. 

Assumption  passed  unobserved.  Then  came  the  wedding 
celebrated  by  the  determined  wish  of  Yegor  Semionovici 
with  what  was  called  eclat,  that  is,  with  meaningless  festivl 
ties  which  lasted  for  two  days.  Three  thousand  rubles  wen 
consumed  in  food  and  drink;  but  what  with  the  vile  music, 
the  noisy  toasts,  the  fussing  servants,  the  clamour,  and  the 
closeness  of  the  atmosphere,  no  one  appreciated  the  expensive 
wines  or  the  astonishing  hors  d'oeuvres  specially  ordered  from 
Moscow. 

VII 

One  of  the  long  winter  nights.  Kovrin  lay  in  bed,  read 
ing  a  French  novel.  Poor  Tanya,  whose  head  every  evening 
ached  as  the  result  of  the  unaccustomed  life  in  town,  had 
long  been  sleeping,  muttering  incoherent  phrases  in  her 
dreams. 

The  clock  struck  three.  Kovrin  put  out  the  candle  and 
Jay  down,  lay  for  a  long  time  with  closed  eyes  unable  to  sleep 
owing  to  the  heat  of  the  room  and  Tanya's  continued  mut 
tering.  At  half-past  four  he  again  lighted  the  candle.  The 
Black  Monk  was  sitting  in  a  chair  beside  his  bed. 

"Good  night!"  said  the  monk,  and  then,  after  a  moment's 
silence,  asked,  "What  are  you  thinking  of  now?" 

"Of  glory,"  answered  Kovrin.  "In  a  French  novel  which 
I  have  just  been  reading,  the  hero  is  a  young  man  who  does 
foolish  things,  and  dies  from  a  passion  for  glory.  To  me 
this  passion  is  inconceivable." 

"Because  you  are  too  clever.  You  look  indifferently  on 
fame  as  a  toy  which  cannot  interest  you." 

"That  is  true." 

"Celebrity  has  no  attractions  for  you.    What  flattery,  joy, 


66  ROTHSCHILD'S  FIDDLE 

or  instruction  can  a  man  draw  from  the  knowledge  that  his 
name  will  be  graven  on  a  monument,  when  time  will  efface  the 
inscription  sooner  or  later?  Yes,  happily  there  are  too  many 
of  you  for  brief  human  memory  to  remember  all  your 
names." 

"Of  course,"  said  Kovrin.  "And  why  remember 
them?  .  .  .  But  let  us  talk  of  something  else.  Of  happiness, 
for  instance.  What  is  this  happiness?" 

When  the  clock  struck  five  he  was  sitting  on  the  bed  with 
his  feet  trailing  on  the  carpet  and  his  head  turned  to  the 
monk,  and  saying: 

"In  ancient  times  a  man  became  frightened  at  his  happi 
ness,  so  great  it  was,  and  to  placate  the  gods  laid  before 
them  in  sacrifice  his  beloved  ring.  You  have  heard?  Now 
I,  like  Polycrates,  am  a  little  frightened  at  my  own  happi 
ness.  From  morning  to  night  I  experience  only  joy — joy  ab 
sorbs  me  and  stifles  all  other  feelings.  I  do  not  know  the 
meaning  of  grief,  affliction,  or  weariness.  I  speak  seriously, 
I  am  beginning  to  doubt." 

"Why?"  asked  the  monk  in  an  astonished  tone.  "Then 
you  think  joy  is  a  supernatural  feeling?  You  think  it  is 
not  the  normal  condition  of  things?  No!  The  higher  a  man 
has  climbed  in  mental  and  moral  development  the  freer  he 
is,  the  greater  satisfaction  he  draws  from  life.  Socrates, 
Diosrenes,  Marcus  Aurelius  knew  joy  and  not  sorrow.  And 
tin  apostle  said,  'rejoice  exceedingly.'  Rejoice  and  be 
happy!" 

'And  suddenly  the  gods  will  be  angered,"  said  Kovrin 
jokingly.  "But  it  would  hardly  be  to  my  taste  if  they  were 
to  steal  my  happiness  and  force  me  to  shiver  and  starve." 

Tanya  awoke,  and  looked  at  her  husband  with  amazement 
and  terror.  He  spoke,  he  turned  to  the  chair,  he  gesticulated, 
and  laughed;  his  eyes  glittered  and  his  laughter  sounded 
strange. 

"Andriusha,  whom  are  you  speaking  to?"  she  asked,  seiz 
ing  the  hand  which  he  had  stretched  out  to  the  monk.  "An- 
driusha,  who  is  it?" 


THE  BLACK  MONK  67 

•Who?"  answered  Kovrin.  "Why,  the  monk!  ...  He  is 
sitting  there."  He  pointed  to  the  Black  Monk. 

"There  is  no  one  there,  ...  no  one,  Andriusha;  you  are 
ill." 

Tanya  embraced  her  husband,  and,  pressing  against  him 
as  if  to  defend  him  against  the  apparition,  covered  his  eyes 
with  her  hand. 

"You  are  ill,"  she  sobbed,  trembling  all  over.  "Forgive 
me,  darling,  but  for  a  long  time  I  have  fancied  you  were 
unnerved  in  some  way.  .  .  .  You  are  ill,  .  .  .  physically, 
Andriusha." 

The  shudder  communicated  itself  to  him.  He  looked  once 
more  at  the  chair,  now  empty,  and  suddenly  felt  weakness 
in  his  arms  and  legs.  He  began  to  dress. 

"It  is  nothing,  Tanya,  nothing,  .  .  ."  he  stammered,  and 
still  shuddered.  "But  I  am  a  little  unwell.  ...  It  is  time 
to  recognise  it." 

"I  have  noticed  it  for  a  long  time,  and  father  noticed  it," 
she  said,  trying  to  restrain  her  sobs.  "You  have  been  speak 
ing  so  funnily  to  yourself,  and  smiling  so  strangely,  .  .  .  and 
you  do  not  sleep.  O,  my  God,  my  God,  save  us!"  she  cried 
in  terror.  "But  do  not  be  afraid,  Andriusha,  do  not 
fear,  ...  for  God's  sake  do  not  be  afraid.  .  .  ." 

She  also  dressed.  ...  It  was  only  as  he  looked  at  her  that 
Kovrin  understood  the  danger  of  his  position,  and  realised 
the  meaning  of  the  Black  Monk  and  of  their  conversations. 
It  became  plain  to  him  that  he  was  mad. 

Both,  themselves  not  knowing  why,  dressed  and  went  into 
the  hall;  she  first,  he  after  her.  There  they  found  Yegor 
Semionovich  in  his  dressing-gown.  He  was  staying  with 
them,  and  had  been  awakened  by  Tanya's  sobs. 

"Do  not  be  afraid,  Andriusha,"  said  Tanya,  trembling  as 
if  in  fever.  "Do  not  be  afraid  .  .  .  father,  this  will  pass 
off  ...  it  will  pass  off." 

Kovrin  was  so  agitated  that  he  could  hardly  speak.  But 
he  tried  to  treat  the  matter  as  a  joke.  He  turned  to  his 
father-in-law  and  attempted  to  say: 


68  ROTHSCHILD'S  FIDDLE 

"Congratulate  me  ...  it  seems  I  have  gone  out  of  my 
mind."  But  his  lips  only  moved,  and  he  smiled  bitterly. 

At  nine  o'clock  they  put  on  his  overcoat  and  a  fur  cloak, 
wrapped  him  up  in  a  shawl,  and  drove  him  to  the  doctor's. 
He  began  a  course  of  treatment. 

VIII 

Again  summer.  By  the  doctor's  orders  Kovrin  returned 
to  the  country.  He  had  recovered  his  health,  and  no  longer 
saw  the  Black  Monk.  It  only  remained  for  him  to  recruit 
his  physical  strength.  He  lived  with  his  father-in-law,  drank 
much  milk,  worked  only  two  hours  a  day,  never  touched 
wine,  and  gave  up  smoking. 

On  the  evening  of  the  igth  June,  before  Elijah's  day,  a 
vesper  service  was  held  in  the  house.  When  the  priest 
took  the  censer  from  the  sexton,  and  the  vast  hall  began 
to  smell  like  a  church,  Kovrin  felt  tired.  He  went  into  the 
garden.  Taking  no  notice  of  the  gorgeous  blossoms  around 
him  he  walked  up  and  down,  sat  for  a  while  on  a  bench,  and 
then  walked  through  the  park.  He  descended  the  sloping 
banX  to  the  margin  of  the  river,  and  stood  still,  looking  ques- 
tionivigly  at  the  water.  The  great  pines,  with  their  shaggy 
roots,  which  a  year  before  had  seen  him  so  young,  so  joyous, 
so  active,  no  longer  whispered,  but  stood  silent  and  motion 
less,  as  if  not  recognising  him.  .  -  .  And,  indeed,  with  his 
short-clipped  hair,  his  feeble  walk,  and  his  changed  face,  so 
heavy  and  pale  and  changed  since  last  year,  he  would 
hardly  have  been  recognised  anywhere. 

He  crossed  the  stream.  In  the  field,  last  year  covered 
with  rye,  lay  rows  of  reaped  oats.  The  sun  had  set,  and  on 
the  horizon  flamed  a  broad,  red  afterglow,  fortelling  stormy 
weather.  All  was  quiet;  and,  gazing  towards  the  point  at 
which  a  year  before  he  had  first  seen  the  Black  Monk, 
Kovrin  stood  twenty  minutes  watching  the  crimson  fade. 
When  he  returned  to  the  house,  tired  and  unsatisfied,  Yegor 
Semionovich  and  Tanya  were  sitting  on  the  steps  of  the 


THE  BLACK  MONK  69 

terrace,  drinking  tea.  They  were  talking  together,  and,  see 
ing  Kovrin,  stopped.  But  Kovrin  knew  by  their  faces  that 
they  had  been  speaking  of  him. 

"It  is  time  for  you  to  have  your  milk,"  said  Tanya  to  her 
husband. 

"No,  not  yet,"  he  answered,  sitting  down  on  the  lowest 
step.  "You  drink  it.  I  do  not  want  it." 

Tanya  timidly  exchanged  glances  with  her  father,  and  said 
in  a  guilty  voice: 

"You  know  very  well  that  the  milk  does  you  good." 

"Yes,  any  amount  of  good,"  laughed  Kovrin.  "I  con 
gratulate  you,  I  have  gained  a  pound  in  weight  since  la^ 
Friday."  He  pressed  his  hands  to  his  head  and  said  in  a 
pained  voice:  "Why  .  .  .  why  have  you  cured  me?  Bro 
mide  mixtures,  idleness,  warm  baths,  watching  in  trivial 
terror  over  every  mouthful,  every  step  ...  all  this  in  the 
end  will  drive  me  to  idiocy.  I  had  gone  out  of  my  mind  .  .  . 
I  had  the  mania  of  greatness.  .  .  .  But  for  all  that  I  was 
bright,  active,  and  ever  happy.  ...  I  was  interesting  and 
original.  Now  I  have  become  rational  and  solid,  just  like 
the  rest  of  the  world.  I  am  a  mediocrity,  and  it  is  tiresome 
for  me  to  live.  .  .  .  Oh,  how  cruelly  .  .  .  how  cruelly  you 
have  treated  me!  I  had  hallucinations  .  .  .  but  what  harm 
did  that  cause  to  anyone?  I  ask  you  what  harm?" 

"God  only  knows  what  you  mean!"  sighed  Yegor  Semiono- 
vich.  "It  is  stupid  even  to  listen  to  you." 

"Then  you  need  not  listen." 

The  presence  of  others,  especially  of  Yegor  Semionovich, 
now  irritated  Kovrin;  he  answered  his  father-in-law  drily, 
coldly,  even  rudely,  and  could  not  look  on  him  without  con 
tempt  and  hatred.  And  Yegor  Semionovich  felt  confused, 
and  coughed  guiltily,  although  he  could  not  see  how  he 
was  in  the  wrong.  Unable  to  understand  the  cause  of  such 
a  sudden  reversal  of  their  former  hearty  relations,  Tanya 
leaned  against  her  father,  and  looked  with  alarm  into  his 
eyes.  It  was  becoming  plain  to  her  that  their  relations  every 
day  grew  worse  and  worseg  that  her  father  had  aged  greatly, 


70  ROTHSCHILD'S  FIDDLE 

and  that  her  husband  had  become  irritable,  capricious,  ex 
citable,  and  uninteresting.  She  no  longer  laughed  and  sang, 
she  ate  nothing,  and  whole  nights  never  slept,  but  lived 
under  the  weight  of  some  impending  terror,  torturing  herself 
so  much  that  she  lay  insensible  from  dinner-time  till  even 
ing.  When  the  service  was  being  held,  it  had  seemed  to  her 
that  her  father  was  crying;  and  now  as  she  sat  on  the  terrace 
she  made  an  effort  not  to  think  of  it. 

"How  happy  were  Buddha  and  Mahomet  and  Shakespeare 
that  their  kind-hearted  kinsmen  and  doctors  did  not  cure 
them  of  ecstasy  and  inspiration! "  said  Kovrin.  "If  Mahomet 
had  taken  potassium  bromide  for  his  nerves,  worked  only 
two  hours  a  day,  and  drunk  milk,  that  astonishing  man 
would  have  left  as  little  behind  him  as  his  dog.  Doctors 
and  kind-hearted  relatives  only  do  their  best  to  make  human 
ity  stupid,  and  the  time  will  come  when  mediocrity  will  be 
considered  genius,  and  humanity  will  perish.  If  you  only 
had  some  idea,"  concluded  Kovrin  peevishly,  "if  you  only 
had  some  idea  how  grateful  I  am!" 

He  felt  strong  irritation,  and  to  prevent  himself  saying  too 
much,  rose  and  went  into  the  house.  It  was  a  windless  night, 
and  into  the  window  was  borne  the  smell  of  tobacco  plants 
and  jalap.  Through  the  windows  of  the  great  dark  hall,  on 
the  floor  and  on  the  piano,  fell  the  moonrays.  Kovrin  re 
called  the  raptures  of  the  summer  before,  when  the  air,  as 
now,  was  full  of  the  smell  of  jalap  and  the  moonrays  poured 
through  the  window.  .  .  .  To  awaken  the  mood  of  last  year 
he  went  to  his  room,  lighted  a  strong  cigar,  and  ordered  the 
servant  to  bring  him  wine.  But  now  the  cigar  was  bitter 
and  distasteful,  and  the  wine  had  lost  its  flavour  of  the  year 
before.  How  much  it  means  to  get  out  of  practice!  From  a 
single  cigar,  and  two  sips  of  wine,  his  head  went  round,  and 
he  was  obliged  to  take  bromide  of  potassium. 

Before  going  to  bed  Tanya  said  to  him: 

"Listen.  Father  worships  you,  but  you  are  annoyed  with 
him  about  something,  and  that  is  killing  him.  Look  at  his 
face:  he  is  growing  old,  not  by  days  but  by  hours!  I  im- 


THE  BLACK  MONK  71 

plore  you,  Andriusha,  for  the  love  of  Christ,  for  the  sake 
of  your  dead  father,  for  the  sake  of  my  peace  of  mhid — 
be  kind  to  him  again!" 

"I  cannot,  and  I  do  not  want  to." 

"But  why?"  Tanya  trembled  all  over.  "Explain  to  me 
why!" 

"Because  I  do  not  like  him;  that  is  all,"  answered  Kovrin 
carelessly,  shrugging  his  shoulders.  "But  better  not  talk  of 
that;  he  is  your  father." 

"I  cannot,  cannot  understand,"  said  Tanya.  She  pressed 
her  hands  to  her  forehead  and  fixed  her  eyes  on  one  point. 
"Something  terrible,  something  incomprehensible  is  going  on 
in  this  house.  You,  Andriusha,  have  changed;  you  are  no 
longer  yourself.  .  .  .  You — a  clever,  an  exceptional  man — 
get  irritated  over  trifles.  .  .  .  You  are  annoyed  by  such  little 
things  that  at  any  other  time  you  yourself  would  have  re 
fused  to  believe  it.  No  ...  do  not  be  angry,  do  not  be 
angry,"  she  continued,  kissing  his  hands,  and  frightened  by 
her  own  words.  "You  are  clever,  good,  and  noble.  You  will 
be  just  to  father.  He  is  so  good." 

"He  is  not  good,  but  merely  good-humoured.  These 
vaudeville  uncles — of  your  father's  type — with  well-fed,  easy 
going  faces,  are  characters  in  their  way,  and  once  used  to 
amuse  me,  whether  in  novels,  in  comedies,  cr  in  life.  But 
they  are  now  hateful  to  me.  They  are  egoists  to  the  marrow 
of  their  bones.  .  .  .  Most  disgusting  of  all  is  their  satiety, 
and  this  stomachic,  purely  bovine — or  swinish — optimism." 

Tanya  sat  on  the  bed,  and  laid  her  head  on  a  pillow. 

"This  is  torture!"  she  said;  and  from  her  voice  it  was 
plain  that  she  was  utterly  weary  and  found  it  hard  to  speak. 
"Since  last  winter  not  a  moment  of  rest.  ...  It  is  terrible, 
my  God!  I  suffer  .  .  ." 

"Yes,  of  course!  I  am  Herod,  and  you  and  your  papa  the 
massacred  infants.  Of  course!" 

His  face  seemed  to  Tanya  ugly  and  disagreeable.  The  ex 
pression  of  hatred  and  contempt  did  not  suit  it.  She  even 
observed  that  something  was  lacking  in  his  face;  ever  since 


72  ROTHSCHILD'S  FIDDLE 

his  hair  had  been  cut  off,  it  seemed  changed.  She  felt  an 
almost  irresistible  desire  to  say  something  insulting,  but  re 
strained  herself  in  time,  and  overcome  with  terror,  went  out 
of  the  bedroom. 

IX 

Kovrin  received  an  independent  chair.  His  inaugural  ad 
dress  was  fixed  for  the  2nd  of  December,  and  a  notice  to  that 
effect  was  posted  in  the  corridors  of  the  University.  But 
when  the  day  came  a  telegram  was  received  by  the  University 
authorities  that  he  could  not  fulfill  the  engagement,  owing  to 
illness. 

Blood  came  from  his  throat.  He  spat  it  up,  and  twice  in 
one  month  it  flowed  in  streams.  He  felt  terribly  weak,  and 
fell  into  a  somnolent  condition.  But  this  illness  did  not 
frighten  him,  for  he  knew  that  his  dead  mother  had  lived 
with  the  same  complaint  more  than  ten  years.  His  doctors, 
too,  declared  that  there  was  no  danger,  and  advised  him 
merely  not  to  worry,  to  lead  a  regular  life,  and  to  talk  less. 

In  January  the  lecture  was  postponed  for  the  same  reason, 
and  in  February  it  was  too  late  to  begin  the  course.  It  was 
postponed  till  the  following  year. 

He  no  longer  lived  with  Tanya,  but  with  another  woman, 
older  than  himself,  who  looked  after  him  as  if  he  were  a 
child.  His  temper  was  calm  and  obedient;  he  submitted 
willingly,  and  when  Varvara  Nikolayevna — that  was  her 
name — made  arrangements  for  taking  him  to  the  Crimea, 
he  consented  to  go,  although  he  felt  that  from  the  change 
no  good  would  come. 

They  reached  Sevastopol  late  one  evening,  and  stopped 
there  to  rest,  intending  to  drive  to  Yalta  on  the  following 
day.  Both  were  tired  by  the  journey.  Varvara  Nikolayevna 
drank  tea,  and  went  to  bed.  But  Kovrin  remained  up.  An 
hour  before  leaving  home  for  the  railway  station  he  had  re 
ceived  a  letter  from  Tanya,  which  he  had  not  read;  and  the 
thought  of  this  letter  caused  him  unpleasant  agitation.  In  the 


THE  BLACK  MONK  73 

depths  of  his  heart  he  knew  that  his  marriage  with  Tanya 
had  been  a  mistake.  He  was  glad  that  he  was  finally  parted 
from  her;  but  the  remembrance  of  this  woman,  who  towards 
the  last  had  seemed  to  turn  into  a  walking,  living  mummy, 
in  which  all  had  died  except  the  great,  clever  eyes,  awakened 
in  him  only  pity  and  vexation  against  himself.  The  writing 
on  the  envelope  reminded  him  that  two  years  before  he  had 
been  guilty  of  cruelty  and  injustice,  and  that  he  had  avenged 
on  people  in  no  way  guilty  his  spiritual  vacuity,  his  solitude, 
his  disenchantment  with  life.  ...  He  remembered  how  he 
had  once  torn  into  fragments  his  dissertation  and  all  the  ar 
ticles  written  by  him  since  the  time  of  his  illness,  and  thrown 
them  out  of  the  window,  how  the  fragments  flew  in  the  wind 
and  rested  on  the  trees  and  flowers;  in  every  page  he  had 
seen  strange  and  baseless  pretensions,  frivolous  irritation, 
and  a  mania  for  greatness.  And  all  this  had  produced  upon 
him  an  impression  that  he  had  written  a  description  of  his 
own  faults.  Yet  when  the  last  copybook  had  been  torn  up 
and  thrown  out  of  the  window,  he  felt  bitterness  and  vexation, 
and  went  to  his  wife  and  spoke  to  her  cruelly.  Heavens,  how 
he  had  ruined  her  life!  He  remembered  how  once,  wishing 
to  cause  her  pain,  he  had  told  her  that  her  father  had  played 
in  their  romance  an  unusual  role,  and  had  even  asked  him 
to  marry  her;  and  Yegor  Semionovich,  happening  to  over 
hear  him,  had  rushed  into  the  room,  so  dumb  with  consterna 
tion  that  he  could  not  utter  a  word,  but  only  stamped  his  feet 
on  one  spot  and  bellowed  strangely  as  if  his  tongue  had  been 
cut  out.  And  Tanya,  looking  at  her  father,  cried  out  in  a 
heart-rending  voice,  and  fell  insensible  on  the  floor.  It  was 
hideous. 

The  memory  of  all  this  returned  to  him  at  the  sight  of 
the  well-known  handwriting.  He  went  out  on  to  the  bal 
cony.  It  was  warm  and  calm,  and  a  salt  smell  came  to  him 
from  the  sea.  The  moonlight,  and  the  lights  around,  were 
imaged  on  the  surface  of  the  wonderful  bay — a  surface  of 
a  hue  impossible  to  name.  It  was  a  tender  and  soft  combina 
tion  of  dark  blue  and  green;  in  parts  the  water  resembled 


74  ROTHSCHILD'S  FIDDLE 

copperas,  and  in  parts,  instead  of  water,  liquid  moonlight 
filled  the  bay.  And  all  these  combined  in  a  harmony  of 
hues  which  exhaled  tranquillity  and  exaltation. 

In  the  lower  story  of  the  inn,  underneath  the  balcony,  the 
windows  were  evidently  open,  for  women's  voices  and  laugh 
ter  could  plainly  be  heard.  There  must  be  an  entertain 
ment. 

Kovrin  made  an  effort  over  himself,  unsealed  the  letter, 
and,  returning  to  his  room,  began  to  read: 

"My  father  has  just  died.  For  this  I  am  indebted  to  you, 
for  it  was  you  who  killed  him.  Our  garden  is  being  ruined; 
it  is  managed  by  strangers;  what  my  poor  father  so  dreaded 
is  taking  place.  For  this  also  I  am  indebted  to  you.  I  hate 
you  with  all  my  soul,  and  wish  that  you  may  perish  soon! 
Ah,  how  I  suffer!  My  heart  burns  with  an  intolerable 
pain!  .  .  .  May  you  be  accursed!  I  took  you  for  an  ex 
ceptional  man,  for  a  genius;  I  loved  you,  and  you  proved 
a  madman.  ..." 

Kovrin  could  read  no  more;  he  tore  up  the  letter  and 
threw  the  pieces  away.  ...  He  was  overtaken  by  restless 
ness — almost  by  terror.  .  .  .  On  the  other  side  of  the  screen, 
slept  Varvara  Nikolayevna;  he  could  hear  her  breathing. 
From  the  story  beneath  came  the  women's  voices  and  laugh 
ter,  but  he  felt  that  in  the  whole  hotel  there  was  not  one 
living  soul  except  himself.  The  fact  that  wretched,  over 
whelmed  Tanya  had  cursed  him  in  her  letter,  and  wished  him 
ill,  caused  him  pain;  and  he  looked  fearfully  at  the  door 
as  if  fearing  to  see  again  that  unknown  power  which  in  two 
years  had  brought  about  so  much  ruin  in  his  own  life  and 
in  the  lives  of  all  who  were  dearest  to  him. 

By  experience  he  knew  that  when  the  nerves  give  way  the 
best  refuge  lies  in  work.  He  used  to  sit  at  the  table  and 
loncentrate  his  mind  upon  some  definite  thought.  He  took 
from  his  red  portfolio  a  copybook  containing  the  conspect 
of  a  small  work  of  compilation  which  he  intended  to  carry 
out  during  his  stay  in  the  Crimea,  if  he  became  tired  of  in 
activity.  ...  He  sat  at  the  table,  and  worked  on  this 


THE  BLACK  MONK  75 

conspect,  and  it  seemed  to  him  that  he  was  regaining  his 
former  peaceful,  resigned,  impersonal  mood.  His  conspect 
led  him  to  speculation  on  the  vanity  of  the  world.  He 
thought  of  the  great  price  which  life  demands  for  the  most 
trivial  and  ordinary  benefits  which  it  gives  to  men.  To  reach 
a  chair  of  philosophy  under  forty  years  of  age;  to  be  an 
ordinary  professor;  to  expound  commonplace  thoughts — and 
those  thoughts  the  thoughts  of  others — in  feeble,  tiresome, 
heavy  language;  in  one  word,  to  attain  the  position  of  a 
learned  mediocrity,  he  had  studied  fifteen  years,  worked  day 
and  night,  passed  through  a  severe  psychical  disease,  sur 
vived  an  unsuccessful  marriage — been  guilty  of  many  follies 
and  injustices  which  it  was  torture  to  remember.  Kovrin 
now  clearly  realised  that  he  was  a  mediocrity,  and  he  was 
willingly  reconciled  to  it,  for  he  knew  that  every  man  must 
be  satisfied  with  what  he  is. 

The  conspect  calmed  him,  but  the  torn  letter  lay  upon  the 
floor  and  hindered  the  concentration  of  his  thoughts.  He 
rose,  picked  up  the  fragments,  and  threw  them  out  of  the 
window.  But  a  light  wind  blew  from  the  sea,  and  the  papers 
fluttered  back  on  to  the  window  sill.  Again  he  was  overtaken 
by  restlessness  akin  to  terror,  and  it  seemed  to  him  that  in 
the  whole  hotel  except  himself  there  was  not  one  living 
soul.  ...  He  went  on  to  the  balcony.  The  bay,  as  if  alive, 
stared  up  at  him  from  its  multitude  of  light-  and  dark-blue 
eyes,  its  eyes  of  turquoise  and  fire,  and  beckoned  him.  It 
was  warm  and  stifling;  how  delightful,  he  thought,  to  bathe! 

Suddenly  beneath  the  balcony  a  violin  was  played,  and 
two  women's  voices  sang.  All  this  was  known  to  him.  The 
song  which  they  sang  told  of  a  young  girl,  diseased  in  imag 
ination,  who  heard  by  night  in  a  garden  mysterious  sounds, 
and  found  in  them  a  harmony  and  a  holiness  incomprehen 
sible  to  us  mortals.  .  .  .  Kovrin  held  his  breath,  his  heart 
ceased  to  beat,  and  the  magical,  ecstatic  rapture  which  he 
had  long  forgotten  trembled  in  his  heart  again. 

A  high,  black  pillar,  like  a  cyclone  or  waterspout,  appeared 
on  the  opposite  coast.  It  swept  with  incredible  swiftneSw 


76  ROTHSCHILD'S  FIDDLE 

across  the  bay  towards  the  hotel;  it  became  smaller  and 
smaller,  and  Kovrin  stepped  aside  to  make  room  for  it.  ... 
The  monk,  with  uncovered  grey  head,  with  black  eyebrows, 
barefooted,  folding  his  arms  upon  his  chest,  swept  past  him, 
and  stopped  in  the  middle  of  the  room. 

"Why  did  you  not  believe  me?"  he  asked  in  a  tone  of 
reproach,  looking  caressingly  at  Kovrin.  "If  you  had  be 
lieved  me  when  I  said  you  were  a  genius,  these  last  two 
years  would  not  have  been  passed  so  sadly  and  so  barrenly." 

Kovrin  again  believed  that  he  was  the  elected  of  God  and 
a  genius;  he  vividly  remembered  all  his  former  conversation 
with  the  Black  Monk,  and  wished  to  reply.  But  the  blood 
flowed  from  his  throat  on  to  his  chest,  and  he,  not  knowing 
what  to  do,  moved  his  hands  about  his  chest  till  his  cuffs 
were  red  with  the  blood.  He  wished  to  call  Varvara  Niko- 
layevna,  who  slept  behind  the  screen,  and  making  ah  effort 
to  do  so,  cried: 

"Tanya!" 

He  fell  on  the  floor,  and  raising  his  hands,  again  dried: 

"Tanya!" 

He  cried  to  Tanya,  cried  to  the  great  garden  with  the 
miraculous  flowers,  cried  to  the  park,  to  the  pines  with  their 
shaggy  roots,  to  the  rye-field,  cried  to  his  marvellous  science, 
to  his  youth,  his  daring,  his  joy,  cried  to  the  life  which  had 
been  so  beautiful.  He  saw  on  the  floor  before  him  a  great 
pool  of  blood,  and  from  weakness  could  not  utter  a  single 
word.  But  an  inexpressible,  infinite  joy  filled  his  whole 
being.  Beneath  the  balcony  the  serenade  was  being  played, 
and  the  Black  Monk  whispered  to  him  that  he  was  a  genius, 
and  died  only  because  his  feeble,  mortal  body  had  lost  its 
balance,  and  could  no  longer  serve  as  the  covering  of  genius. 

When  Varvara  Nikolayevna  awoke,  and  came  from  behind 
her  screen,  Kovrin  was  dead.  But  on  his  face  was  frozen  an 
immovable  smile  of  happiness. 


ON  TRIAL 


IN  the  district  capital  N.  stands  a  brown  Government 
building,  used  in  turn  by  the  Zemstvo  Executive,  the 
Session  of  Justices,  the  Peasant,  Licensing,  Recruiting,  and 
many  other  local  authorities;  and  here,  on  a  dull  autumn 
day,  were  held  the  district  assizes. 

This  was  the  brown  building  of  which  a  local  official 
joked:  "It's  the  seat  of  justice,  of  the  police,  of  the  militia 
— in  fact,  quite  an  institute  for  young  gentlewomen." 

In  confirmation  of  the  proverb  that  too  many  cooks 
spoil  the  broth,  this  brown  building  makes  a  bad  impression 
on  the  unofficial  man  by  its  gloomy  barrack-like  view,  its 
air  of  decay,  and  by  the  entire  absence  of  even  a  pretence 
to  comfort,  without  or  within.  Even  on  glaring  spring 
days  it  is  oppressed  by  deep  shadows;  and  on  bright  moon 
light  nights,  when  trees  and  houses,  blending  in  one  thick 
shade,  repose  in  deep  gloom,  it  squats  alone  like  a  dumpy 
stone,  crushing  and  out  of  place,  on  the  modest  landscape, 
spoils  the  harmony  of  its  neighbours,  and  breathes  an  irrit 
able  restlessness,  as  if  tortured  by  memories  of  past,  unfor- 
given  sins.  Inside,  it  is  a  barn,  painfully  comfortless.  It 
is  strange  indeed  how  these  fastidious  procurators,  judges, 
marshals  of  the  nobility  who  at  home  make  scenes  over  a 
smoking  chimney  or  a  stain  on  the  floor,  are  reconciled  here 
with  the  humming  ventilators,  the  sickening  smell  of  wax 
matches,  and  the  dirty,  damp-spotted  walls. 

When  at  nine  o'clock  the  court  assembled  trials  began 
with  unusual  haste.  Case  after  case  ended  quickly,  "as  a 
church  service  without  hymns";  and  no  one  reaped  a  single 

77 


78  ROTHSCHILD'S  FIDDLE 

picturesque  impression  from  the  hurried,  heterogeneous  pro 
cession  of  men,  movements,  speeches,  misfortunes,  truths, 
falsehoods.  By  two  o'clock  much  work  had  been  done: 
two  men  condemned  to  punitive  regiments,  one  criminal  of 
the  privileged  classes  deprived  of  his  rights  and  sent  to  gaol, 
one  prisoner  acquitted,  and  one  case  postponed. 

At  two  o'clock  the  President  announced  the  trial  of 
Nikolay  Kharlamov  on  the  charge  of  murdering  his  wife. 
The  court  was  constituted  as  during  the  earlier  cases.  The 
counsel  for  the  accused  was  a  new  barrister — a  young, 
beardless  "Candidate"  in  a  frock-coat  with  bright  buttons. 

" Bring  in  the  accused!"  cried  the  President. 

But  the  accused  was  already  on  his  way  to  the  dock. 
He  was  a  tall,  sturdy  peasant,  aged  fifty-five,  bald,  with  an 
apathetic,  hairy  face,  and  a  great  carroty  beard.  Behind 
him  marched  a  little  insignificant  soldier  armed  with  a  rifle. 

Almost  at  the  door  of  the  dock  an  accident  happened 
to  this  soldier.  He  slipped  suddenly,  and  his  rifle  flew 
from  his  hand.  Before  it  touched  the  floor  he  caught  it,  but 
knocked  his  knee  sharply  against  the  butt.  Whether  from 
pain  or  from  confusion  at  his  awkwardness,  the  soldier 
turned  very  red. 

There  was  the  usual  questioning  of  the  accused,  assembling 
of  jurymen,  counting  and  swearing  of  witnesses.  The  in 
dictment  was  read.  A  narrow-shouldered,  pale  secretary, 
much  too  thin  for  his  uniform,  with  sticking-plaster  on  his 
cheek,  read  quickly  in  a  low  thick  bass,  which,  as  if  fearing 
to  injure  his  chest,  he  neither  raised  nor  lowered;  as  accom 
paniment,  the  ventilators  hummed  tirelessly  behind  the 
judges'  bench;  and  the  general  result  was  a  chorus  which 
broke  on  the  silence  of  the  room  with  drowsy,  narcotic 
effect. 

The  presiding  judge,  a  short-sighted,  middle-aged  man  with 
a  look  of  extreme  fatigue,  sat  motionless,  and  held  his  hand 
to  his  forehead  as  if  shading  his  eyes  from  the  sun.  While 
the  ventilator  hummed  and  the  secretary  droned,  he  was 
thinking  of  something  not  connected  with  work.  When  the 


ON  TRIAL  79 

secretary  paused  to  take  breath  and  turn  over  a  page,  he 
started  suddenly,  and,  bending  to  the  ear  of  his  colleague, 
asked  with  a  sigh — 

"Are  you  staying  at  Demianov's,  Matvey  Petrovich?" 

"Yes,  Demianov's,"  was  the  reply,  also  given  with  a  start. 

"Next  time  I  will  stay  there  too.  Tipiakov's  is  abso 
lutely  unendurable.  Noise  and  uproar  all  night!  Tapping, 
coughing,  crying  children.  It's  unbearable!" 

The  assistant  procurator,  a  stout,  sated  brunet,  with  gold 
spectacles  and  a  neatly  trimmed  beard,  sat  motionless  as  a 
statue,  and,  resting  his  face  on  his  hand,  read  Byron's  Cain. 
His  eyes  expressed  greedy  absorption,  and  his  brows  rose 
higher  and  higher.  Sometimes  he  lay  back  in  his  chair  and 
looked  indifferently  ahead,  but  soon  again  became  absorbed 
in  his  book.  The  defending  advocate  drew  a  blunt  pencil 
along  the  table,  and,  his  head  inclined  aside,  thought.  His 
young  face  expressed  only  concentrated,  cold  tedium,  such 
tedium  as  shows  on  the  faces  of  schoolboys  and  clerks  who 
sit  day  after  day  in  the  same  places  and  see  the  same  people 
and  the  same  walls.  The  speech  he  was  to  make  in  no  way 
troubled  him.  And,  indeed,  what  was  it?  By  command  of 
his  senior  it  would  follow  a  long-established  convention; 
and,  conscious  that  it  was  colourless  and  tiresome,  without 
passion  or  fire,  he  would  blurt  it  out  to  the  jurymen,  then 
gallop  away  through  rain  and  mud  to  the  railway  station, 
thence  to  town,  where  he  would  be  sent  somewhere  else  in 
the  district  to  make  another  stupid  speech.  It  was  tiresome! 

At  first  the  prisoner  coughed  nervously  and  paled.  But 
soon  even  he  succumbed  to  the  all-pervading  calm,  monotony, 
and  tedium.  Glancing  with  dull  respect  at  the  judges'  uni 
forms  and  the  jurymen's  tired  faces,  he  blinked  his  eyes  in 
differently.  The  legal  atmosphere  and  procedure,  fear  of! 
which  had  so  tortured  him  in  gaol,  acted  now  as  a  sedative. 
Nothing  fulfilled  his  expectations.  He  had  come  into  court 
charged  of  murder;  yet  he  found  no  threatening  faces,  no 
indignant  gestures,  no  loud  phrases  about  justice,  no  interest 
in  his  uncommon  lot;  not  pver  his  judges  turned  on  him  a 


8o  ROTHSCHILD'S  FIDDLE 

long  and  searching  glance.  The  dark  windows,  the  walls, 
the  secretary's  voice,  the  procurator's  pose — all  were  soaked 
with  official  indifference  and  exhaled  a  chill.  It  seemed  as 
if  a  murderer  were  a  simple  office  accessory,  as  if  he  were 
to  be  judged  not  by  living  men,  but  by  some  invisible  ma 
chine,  brought  God  knows  whence. 

The  narcotised  peasant  did  not  understand  that  his  judges 
were  as  used  to  the  dramas  and  tragedies  of  life  as  hospital 
doctors  are  to  death,  and  that  it  was  just  in  this  mechanical 
impartiality  that  lay  the  terror,  the  hopelessness  of  his  case. 
For  if,  instead  of  sitting  still,  he  had  risen  and  begun  to 
implore,  to  shed  tears  for  mercy,  to  repent  bitterly,  to  die 
of  despair — all  would  have  fallen  as  vainly  upon  numbed 
nerves  and  custom  as  waves  upon  a  rock. 

The  indictment  was  finished.  The  President  aimlessly 
stroked  the  table  before  him,  blinked  his  eyes  at  the  pris 
oner,  and  asked,  idly  rolling  his  tongue — 

"Prisoner  at  the  bar,  do  you  confess  to  the  murder  of  your 
wife  on  the  evening  of  the  gth  of  July?" 

"I  am  not  guilty,"  answered  the  accused  man,  rising,  and 
holding  the  breast  of  his  khalat. 

The  Court  hurriedly  set  about  the  examination  of  wit 
nesses,  and  soon  had  questioned  two  peasant  women,  five 
men,  and  the  detective  charged  with  the  investigation  of 
the  crime.  All  of  these,  splashed  with  mud,  fatigued  with 
walking  and  waiting  in  the  witnesses'  room,  melancholy  and 
morose,  told  the  same  tale.  Kharlamov,  they  agreed,  lived 
with  his  wife  "well,"  and  beat  her  only  when  he  was  drunk. 
At  sunset  on  the  gth  of  July  the  old  woman  was  found  in 
the  shed  attached  to  her  cabin  with  her  skull  beaten  in. 
Beside  her  in  a  pool  of  blood  lay  a  hatchet.  When  they 
looked  for  Kharlamov  to  tell  him  of  the  tragedy  he  was 
neither  in  the  hut  nor  in  the  street.  They  looked  for  him 
about  the  village,  searched  the  drink-shops  and  huts,  but 
he  had  vanished.  Two  days  later  he  appeared  at  the  office, 
pale,  tattered,  trembling  all  over.  He  was  handcuffed  and 
locked  up. 


ON  TRIAL  8 1 

"Prisoner!"  The  President  turned  to  Kharlamov.  "Can 
you  not  explain  to  the  court  where  you  spent  the  two  days 
after  the  murder?" 

"I  tramped  the  country.  ...  I  had  nothing  to  eat  or 
drink.  ..." 

"But  if  you  were  innocent  why  did  you  hide  yourself?" 

"I  was  afraid.  ...  I  thought  I  might  be  accused." 

"I  see.  .  .  .  Very  good.     Sit  down!" 

The  district  physician  who  examined  the  woman's  body 
was  the  last  witness.  He  told  the  court  all  that  he  remem 
bered  out  of  the  post-mortem  protocol;  and  added  what  he 
had  reasoned  out  on  the  way  to  the  trial.  The  President 
blinked  at  the  witness's  new,  shiny  black  coat,  his  fashion 
able  necktie,  his  moving  lips;  and  through  his  head  ran  the 
idle  thought,  "Every  one  wears  short  coats  nowadays? 
Why  is  his  cut  long?  Why  long,  and  not  short?" 

Behind  the  President,  boots  creaked  cautiously.  The  as 
sistant  procurator  had  come  to  the  table  to  fetch  a  paper. 

"Mikhail  Vladimirovich ! "  The  assistant  procurator  bent 
down  to  the  President's  ear.  "This  Koreisky  has  investi 
gated  the  case  with  incredible  carelessness.  The  man's 
brother  was  not  even  questioned;  and  you  can't  make  head 
or  tail  of  the  description  of  the  hut.  .  .  ." 

"What  can  you  do?  ...  What  can  you  do?"  sighed  the 
President,  leaning  back  in  his  chair. 

"By  the  by,"  resumed  the  assistant  procurator;  "look, 
there  in  the  hall,  the  first  bench  .  .  .  the  man  with  the 
actor's  face.  That  is  the  local  money  magnate.  He  has 
about  half  a  million  in  ready  cash." 

"Indeed!  He  doesn't  look  it.  ...  Well,  old  man,  shall 
we  have  an  interval?" 

"Let's  finish  the  case,  and  then.  ..." 

"How  do  you  know?  ..."  The  President  turned  to  the 
doctor.  "So  you  find  that  death  was  immediate?" 

"Yes,  as  the  result  of  serious  injury  to  the  substance  of 
the  brain.  ..." 

When  the  doctor  finished,  the  President  looked  at  the 


82  ROTHSCHILD'S  FIDDLE 

blank  space  between  procurator  and  defending  counsel  and 
asked:  "Have  you  any  questions  to  put?" 

The  assistant  procurator  without  lifting  his  eyes  from 
Cain  shook  his  head.  The  defending  counsel  moved 
brusquely,  coughed,  and  asked — 

"Tell  me,  doctor,  judging  by  the  size  of  the  wound,  could 
you  form  any  judgment  as  to  ...  as  to  the  murderer's 
mental  condition?  That  is,  I  want  to  know  if  the  size  of 
the  wound  justifies  our  concluding  that  the  accused  was 
in  an  epileptic  fit." 

The  President  turned  his  sleepy,  indifferent  glance  on  the 
defending  counsel.  The  procurator  raised  his  eyes  from  Cain 
and  looked  at  the  President.  But  it  was  a  mere  look,  ex 
pressing  neither  amusement  nor  surprise,  expressing,  in  fact, 
nothing  at  all. 

The  doctor  hesitated.  "If  you  consider  the  force  with 
which  the  accused  delivered  the  blow.  .  .  .  Otherwise  .  .  . 
But  excuse  me,  I  do  not  quite  understand  your  point." 

The  defending  lawyer  got  no  answer  to  his  question,  and, 
indeed,  needed  none.  He  knew  that  it  had  arisen  in  his 
mind,  and  flowed  from  his  lips,  merely  under  the  spell  of  the 
tedium,  the  stillness,  the  humming  ventilators.  Releasing 
the  doctor,  the  court  examined  the  articles  produced  as 
evidence.  First  they  looked  at  a  caftan,  on  the  sleeve  of 
which  was  a  dark  brown  spot  of  blood.  The  origin  of  this 
spot  was  explained  by  Kharlamov  as  follows — 

"Three  days  before  my  wife's  death  Penkov  bled  his 
horse.  I  was  there,  and,  of  course,  helped  him  .  .  .  and  I 
got  smeared  with  blood.  .  .  ." 

"But  Penkov  has  just  sworn  that  he  does  not  remember 
you  being  present  when  the  horse  was  bled." 

"I  do  net  know.  .  .  ." 

"Sit  down." 

The  court  examined  the  hatchet  found  beside  the  dead 
woman. 

"That  is  not  my  hatcfcet,"  said  the  accused. 

"Whose,  then?" 


ON  TRIAL  83 

"I  do  not  know  ...  I  had  no  hatchet." 

"No  peasant  can  carry  on  his  business  without  a  hatchet. 
Your  neighbour,  Ivan  Timofeyich,  who  mended  the  sledge 
with  you,  swears  that  the  hatchet  is  yours.  ..." 

"I  know  nothing  .  .  .  only  this,  that  I  swear  before  God" 
— Kharlamov  extended  his  hand  and  opened  wide  his  fingers 
— "I  swear  before  my  true  Creator  ...  I  cannot  even  re 
member  when  I  last  had  a  hatchet.  I  once  had  one  like  that, 
only  a  little  smaller,  but  my  son  Proshka  lost  it.  About 
two  years  before  he  was  taken  as  a  soldier  he  went  to  cut 
wood — he  went  playing  with  the  children,  and  lost  it.  ,  .  ." 

'That  will  do.     Sit  down!" 

The  persistent  distrust  and  unwillingness  of  all  to  listen 
at  last  irritated  and  enraged  Kharlamov.  He  blinked  his 
eyes  furiously,  and  on  his  cheek-bones  appeared  two  bright 
red  spots. 

"Before  the  eyes  of  God! "  he  exclaimed,  stretching  out  his 
hand.  "If  you  do  not  believe  me,  then  ask  my  son  Proshka! " 
He  spoke  in  a  rough  voice,  and  turned  suddenly  to  the  little 
soldier  who  guarded  him.  "Proshka,  where  is  the  hatchet? 
Where  is  the  hatchet?" 

It  was  a  terrible  moment.  All  in  court,  it  seemed,  sank 
into  their  seats  and  dwindled  to  points.  .  .  .  Through  every 
head  like  lightning  flashed  one  and  the  same  terrible  thought, 
and  not  one  out  of  all  of  them  dared  to  look  at  the  soldier's 
face.  Each  did  his  best  to  discredit  his  own  ears,  to  cherish 
the  delusion  that  he  had  not  heard  aright. 

"Prisoner,  you  are  not  allowed  to  speak  to  the  guard'  ' 
said  the  President  hastily. 

No  one  saw  the  soldier's  face,  and  terror  flew  through  the 
court  unseen.  The  usher  rose  from  his  bench,  and  on 
tiptoes,  swinging  his  arms,  went  out  of  the  hall.  In  half  a 
minute  came  the  sound  of  dull  footfalls  and  such  noises  as 
are  heard  when  sentries  are  relieved. 

All  raised  their  heads  and,  trying  to  look  as  if  nothing  un 
common  had  happened,  continued  their  work.  .  .  . 


EXPENSIVE  LESSONS 


IT  is  a  great  bore  for  an  educated  person  not  to  know 
foreign  languages.     Vorotov  felt  it  strongly,  when  on 
leaving  the  university  after  he  had  got  his  degree  he  occupied 
himself  with  a  little  scientific  research. 

Vlt's  awful!"  he  used  to  say,  losing  his  breath  (for  al 
though  only  twenty-six  he  was  stout,  heavy,  and  short  of 
breath).  "It's  awful.  Without  knowing  languages  I'm  like 
a  Slid  without  wings.  I'll  simply  have  to  chuck  the  work." 

So  he  decided,  come  what  might,  to  conquer  his  natural 
laziness  and  to  study  French  and  German,  and  he  began  to 
look  out  for  a  teacher. 

One  winter  afternoon,  as  Vorotov  sat  working  in  his  study, 
the  servant  announced  a  lady  to  see  him. 

"Show  her  in,"  said  Vorotov. 

And  a  young  lady,  exquisitely  dressed  in  the  latest  fashion, 
entered  the  study.  She  introduced  herself  as  Alice  Ossipovna 
Enquette,  a  teacher  of  French,  and  said  that  a  friend  of 
Vorotov's  had  sent  her  to  him. 

"Very  glad!  Sit  down!"  said  Vorotov,  losing  his  breath, 
and  clutching  at  the  collar  of  his  night  shirt.  (He  always 
worked  in  a  night  shirt  in  order  to  breathe  more  easily.) 
"You  were  sent  to  me  by  Peter  Sergueyevich?  Yes  .  .  . 
Yes  ...  I  asked  him  .  .'.  Very  glad!" 

While  he  discussed  the  matter  with  Mademoiselle  En 
quette  he  glanced  at  her  shyly,  with  curiosity.  She  was  a 
genuinejlr^ejicjiw^man,  very  elegant,  and  still  quite  young. 
From  her  pale  and  languid  face,  from  her  short,  curly  hair 

84 


EXPENSIVE  LESSONS  85 

and  unnaturally  small  waist,  you  would  not  think  her  more 
than  eighteen,  but  looking  at  her  broad,  well-developed 
shoulders,  her  charming  back  and  severe  eyes,  Vorotov  de 
cided  that  she  was  certainly  not  less  than  twenty-three,  per 
haps  even  twenty-five;  but  then  again  it  seemed  to  him 
that  she  was  only  eighteen.  Her  face  had  the  cold,  business 
like  expression  of  one  who  had  come  to  discuss  a  business 
matter.  Never  once  did  she  smile  or  frown,  and  only  once 
a  look  of  perplexity  flashed  into  her  eyes,  when  she  discovered 
that  she  was  not  asked  to  teach  children  but  a  grown  up, 
stout  young  man. 

"So,  Alice  Osipovna,"  Vorotov  said  to  her,  "you  will  give 
me  a  lesson  daily  from  seven  to  eight  o'clock  in  the  evening. 
With  regard  to  your  wish  to  receive;  a  ruble  a  lesson,  I  have 
no  objection  at  all.  A  ruble-^well,;let  it  be  a  ruble.  .  .  ." 

And  he  went  on  asking  her  if  she  wanted  tea  or  coffee,  if: 
the  weather  was  fine,  and,  smiling  good  naturedly,  stroking 
the  tablecloth  with  the  palm  of  his  hand,  he  asked  her  kindly 
who  she  was,  where  she  had  completed  her  education,  and 
how  she  earned  her  living. 

In  a  cold,  business-like  tone  Alice  Osipovna  answered  that 
she  had  completed  her  education  at  a  private  school,  and 
then  qualified  as  a  domestic  teacher,  that  her  father  had  died 
recently  of  scarlet  fever,  her  mother  was  alive  and  made 
artificial  flowers,  that  she,  Mademoiselle  Enquette,  gave  pri 
vate  lessons  at  a  pension  in  the  morning,  and  from  one  o'clock 
right  until  the  evening  she  taught  in  respectable  private 
houses. 

She  went,  leaving  a  slight  and  almost  imperceptible  per 
fume  of  a  woman's  dress  behind  her.  Vorotov  did  not  work 
for  a  long  time  afterwards  but  sat  at  the  table  stroking  the 
green  cloth  and  thinking. 

"Itjs  very  pleasant  to  see  girls  earning  their  own  living,1' 
he  thought.  "On  the  other  hand  it  is  very  unpleasant  to 
realise  that  rjoyerty  does  not  spare  even  such  elegant  and 
pretty  girls  as^Iic^QiigovnaT^K^too.  must  struggle  fa* 
her  existence  Rotten  luck!  .  ,  ." 


86  ROTHSCHILD'S  FIDDLE 

Having  never  seen  virtuous  Frenchwomen  he  also  thought 
that  this  exquisitely  dressed  Alice  Osipovna,  with  her  well- 
developed  shoulders  and  unnaturally  small  waist  was  in  all 
probability,  engaged  in  something  else  besides  teaching. 

Next  evening  when  the  clock  pointed  to  five  minutes  to 
seven,  Alice  Osipovna  arrived,  rosy  from  the  cold;  she  opened 
Margot  (an  elementary  text-book)  and  began  without  any 
preamble: 

"The  French  grammar  has  twenty-six  letters*  The  first  is 
called  A,  the  second  B  .  .  ." 

" Pardon/  interrupted  Vorotov,  smiling,  "I  must  warn 
you,  Mademoiselle,  that  you  will  have  to  change  your  meth 
ods  somewhat  in  my  case.  The  fact  is  that  I  know  Russian, 
Latin  and  Greek  very  well.  I  have  studied  comparative 
philology,  and  it  seems  to  me  that  we  may  leave  out  Margot 
and  begin  straight  off  to  read  some  author."  And  he  ex 
plained  to  the  Frenchwoman  how  grown-up  people  study  lan 
guages. 

"A  friend  of  mine,"  said  he,  "who  wished  to  know  modern 
languages  put  a  French,  German  and  Latin  gospel  in  front 
of  him  and  then  minutely  analysed  one  word  after  another. 
The  result — he  achieved  his  purpose  in  less  than  a  year.  Let 
us  take  some  author  and  start  reading." 

The  Frenchwoman  gave  him  a  puzzled  look.  It  was  evi 
dent  that  Vorotov 's  proposal  appeared  to  her  naive  and 
absurd.  If  he  had  not  been  grown  up  she  would  certainly 
have  got  angry  and  stormed  at  him,  but  as  he  was  a  very 
stout,  adult  man  at  whom  she  could  not  storm,  she  only 
shrugged  her  shoulders  half -perceptibly  and  said: 

"Just  as  you  please." 

Vorotox  ransacked  his  bookshelves  and  produced  a  ragged 
French  book. 

"Will  this  do?"  he  asked. 

"It's  all  the  same." 

"In  that  case  let  us  begin.  Let  us  start  from  the  title, 
Memoires" 

"Reminiscences  ..."  translated  Mademoiselle  Enqueue. 


EXPENSIVE  LESSONS  87 

"Reminiscences  .  .  ."  repeated  Vorotov. 

Smiling  good  naturedly  and  breathing  heavily,  he  passed 
a  quarter  of  an  hour  over  the  word  memoires  and  the  same 
with  the  word  de.  This  tired  Alice  Osipovna  out.  She  an 
swered  his  questions  carelessly,  got  confused  and  evidently 
neither  understood  her  pupil  nor  tried  to.  Vorotov  asked  her 
questions,  and  at  the  same  time  glanced  furtively  at  her  fair 
hair,  thinking: 

"The  hair  is  not  naturally  curly.  She  waves  it.  Mar 
vellous!  She  works  from  morning  till  night  and  yet  she 
finds  time  to  wave  her  hair." 

At  eight  o'clock  sharp  she  got  up,  gave  him  a  dry,  cold 
"Au  revoir,  Monsieur,"  and  left  the  study.  After  her  lin 
gered  the  same  sweet,  subtle,  agitating  perfume.  The  pupil 
again  did  nothing  for  a  long  time,  but  sat  by  the  table  and 
thought. 

During  the  following  days  he  became  convinced  that  his 
teacher  was  a  charming  girl  serious  and  punctual,  but  very 
uneducated  and  incapable  of  teaching  grown  upjpeople;  so 
he"S55fte^580ftEHwt IWRTBs^SSnWpSn^lK  her 
and  engage  someone  else.  When  she  came  for  the  seventh 
lesson  he  took  an  envelope  containing  seven  rubles  out  of 
his  pocket.  Holding  it  in  his  hands  and  blushing  furiously, 
he  began: 

"I  am  sorry,  Alice  Osipovna,  but  I  must  tell  you.  ...  I 
am  placed  in  an  awkward  position.  .  .  ." 

The  Frenchwoman  glanced  at  the  envelope  and  guessed 
what  was  the  matter.  For  the  first  time  during  the  lessons 
a  shiver  passed  over  her  face  and  the  cold,  business-like  ex 
pression  disappeared.  She  reddened  faintly,  and  casting  her 
eyes  down,  began  to  play  absently  with  her  thin  gold  chain. 
And  Vorotov,  noticing  her  confusion,  understood  how  precious 
this  ruble  was  to  her,  how  hard  k  would  be  for  her  to  lose 
this  money. 

"I  must  tell  you,"  he  murmured,  getting  still  more  con 
fused.  His  heart  gave  a  thump.  Quickly  he  put  the  envelope 
back  into  his  pocket  and  continued: 


88  ROTHSCHILDS  FIDDLE 

"Excuse  me.  I  ...  I  will  leave  you  for  ten  min 
utes.  .  .  ." 

And  as  though  he  did  not  want  to  dismiss  her  at  all, 
but  had  only  asked  permission  to  retire  for  a  moment  he 
went  into  another  room  and  sat  there  for  ten  minutes.  Then 
he  returned,  more  confused  than  ever;  he  thought  that  his 
leaving  her  like  that  would  be  explained  by  her  in  a  certain 
way  and  this  made  him  awkward. 

The  lessons  began  again. 

Vorotov  wanted  them  no  more.  Knowing  that  they  would 
lead  to  nothing  he  gave  the  Frenchwoman  a  free  hand;  he 
did  not  question  or  interrupt  her  any  more.  She  translated 
at  her  own  sweet  will,  ten  pages  a  lesson,  but  he  did  not 
listen.  He  breathed  heavily  and  for  want  of  occupation 
gazed  now  and  then  at  her  curly  little  head,  her  neck,  her 
soft  white  hands,  and  inhaled  the  perfume  of  her  dress. 

He  caught  himself  thinking  about  her  as  he  ought  not 
and  it  shamed  him,  or  admiring  her,  and  then  he  felt  ag 
grieved  and  angry  because  she  behaved  so  coldly  towards 
him,  in  such  a  business-like  way,  never  smiling  and  as  if 
afraid  that  he  might  suddenly  touch  her.  All  the  while  he 
thought:  How  could  he  inspire  her  with  confidence  in  him, 
how  could  he  get  to  know  her  better,  to  help  her,  to  make 
her  realise  howj>ao!ly_she  taught,  poor  little  soul? 

Once  Alice  Osipovna  came  to  the  lesson  in  a  dainty  pink 
dress,  a  little  decollete,  and  such  a  sweet  scent  came  from 
her  that  you  might  have  thought  she  was  wrapped  in  a 
cloud,  that  you  had  only  to  blow  on  her  for  her  to  fly  away 
or  dissolve  like  smoke.  She  apologised,  saying  she  could 
only  stay  for  half  an  hour,  because  she  had  to  go  straight 
from  the  lesson  to  a  ball. 

He  gazed  at  her  neck,  at  her  bare  shoulders  and  he  thought 
he  understood  why  Frenchwomen  were  known  to  be  light- 
minded  and  easily  won;  he  was  drowned  in  this  cloud  of 
scent,  beauty,  and  nudity,  and  she,  quite  unaware  of  his 
thoughts  and  probably  not  in  the  least  interested  in  them, 
read  over  the  pages  quickly  and  translated  full  steam  ahead: 


EXPENSIVE  LESSONS  89 

"He  walked  over  the  street  and  met  the  gentleman  of  his 
friend  and  said:  where  do  you  rush?  seeing  your  face  so  pale 
it  makes  me  pain." 

The  Memoir es  had  been  finished  long  ago;  Alice  was  now 
translating  another  book.  Once  she  came  to  the  lesson  an 
hour  earlier,  apologising  because  she  had  to  go  to  the  Little 
Theatre  at  seven  o'clock.  When  the  lesson  was  over  Vorotov 
dressed  and  he  too  went  to  the  theatre.  It  seemed  to  him 
only  for  the  sake  of  rest  and  distraction,  and  he  did  not  even 
think  of  Alice.  He  would  not  admit  that  a  serious  man, 
preparing  for  a  scientific  career,  a  stay-at-home,  should  brush 
aside  his  book  and  rush  to  the  theatre  for  the  sake  of  meet 
ing  an  umntellectual ^stupid  girl  whom  he  hardly  knew. 

But  somehow,  during  the  intervals  nis  Heart  beat*  and, 
without  noticing  it,  he  ran  about  the  foyer  and  the  corridors 
like  a  boy,  looking  impatiently  for  someone.  Every  time  the 
interval  was  over  he  was  tired,  but  when  he  discovered  the 
familiar  pink  dress  and  the  lovely  shoulders  veiled  with  tulle 
his  heart  jumped  as  if  from  a  presentiment  of  happiness,  he 
smiled  joyfully,  and  for  the  first  time  in  his  life  he  felt 
jealous. 

Alice  was  with  two  ugly  students  and  an  officer.  She  was 
laughing,  talking  loudly  and  evidently  flirting.  Vorotov  had 
never  seen  her  like  that.  Apparently  she  was  happy,  con 
tended,  natural,  warm.  Why?  What  was  the  reason?  Per 
haps  because  these  people  were  dear  to  her  and  belonged  to 
the  same  class  as  she.  Vorotov  felt  the  huge  abyss  between 
him  and  that  class.  He  bowed  to  his  teacher,  but  she  nodded 
coldly  and  quietly  passed  by.  It  was  plain  she  did  not 
want  her  cavaliers  to  know  that  she  had  pupils  and  gave 
lessons  because  she  was  poor. 

After  the  meeting  at  the  theatre  Vorotov  knew  that  he 
was  in  love.  During  lessons  that  followed  he  devoured  his 
elegant  teacher  with  his  eyes,  and  no  longer  struggling,  he 
gave  full  rein  to  his  pure  and  impure  thoughts.  Alice's 
face  was  always  cold.  Exactly  at  eight  o'clock  every  even 
ing  she  said  calmly,  "Au  revoir,  Monsieur,"  and  he  felt 


90  ROTHSCHILD'S  FIDDLE 

that  she  was  indifferent  to  him  and  would  remain  indifferent, 
that — his  position  was  hopeless. 

Sometimes  in  the  middle  of  a  lesson  he  would  begin 
dreaming,  hoping,  building  plans;  he  composed  an  amorous 
declaration,  remembering  that  Frenchwomen  were  frivolous 
and  complaisant,  but  he  had  only  ~t6~gfve  his  teacheT"bne 
glance  for  his  thoughts  to  be  blown  out  like  a  candle,  when 
you  carry  it  on  to  the  verandah  of  a  bungalow  and  the  wind 
is  blowing.  Once,  overcome,  forgetting  everything,  in  a 
frenzy,  he  could  stand  it  no  longer.  He  barred  her  way  when 
she  came  from  the  study  into  the  hall  after  the  lesson  and, 
losing  his  breath  and  stammering,  began  to  declare  his  love: 

"You  are  dear  to  me!  ...  I  love  you.  Please  let  me 
speak!" 

Alice  grew  pale:  probably  she  was  afraid  that  after  this 
declaration  she  would  not  be  able  to  come  to  him  any  more 
and  receive  a  ruble  a  lesson.  She  looked  at  him  with  ter 
rified  eyes  and  began  in  a  loud  whisper: 

"Ah,  it's  impossible!  Do  not  speak,  I  beg  you!  Impos 
sible!" 

Afterwards  Vorotov  did  not  sleep  all  night;  he  tortured 
himself  with  shame,  abused  himself,  thinking  feverishly.  He 
thought  that  his  declaration  had  offended  the  girl  and  that 
she  would  not  come  any  more.  He  made  up  his  mind  to 
find  out  where  she  lived  from  the  Address  Bureau  and  to 
write  her  an  apology.  But  Alice  came  without  the  letter. 
For  a  moment  she  felt  awkward,  and  then  opened  the  book 
and  began  to  translate  quickly,  in  an  animated  voice,  as 
always: 

"  'Oh,  young  gentleman,  do  not  rend  these  flowers  in  my 
garden  which  I  want  to  give  to  my  sick  daughter.' ': 

She  still  goes.  Four  books  have  been  translated  by  now 
but  Vorotov  knows  nothing  beyond  the  word  memoires,  and 
when  he  is  asked  about  his  scientific  research  work  he  waves 
his  hand,  leaves  the  question  unanswered,  and  begins  to 
talk  about  the  weather. 


THE   KISS 


ON  the  evening  of  the  twentieth  of  May,  at  eight  o'clock, 
all  six  batteries  of  the  N  Artillery  Brigade  on  cheir 
way  to  camp  arrived  at  the  village  of  Miestechky  with  the 
intention  of  spending  the  night. 

The  confusion  was  at  its  worst — some  officers  fussea  about 
the  guns,  others  in  the  church  square  arranged  with  the 
quartermaster — when  from  behind  the  church  rode  a  civilian 
upon  a  most  remarkable  mount.  The  small,  short-tailed  bay 
with  well-shaped  neck  progressed  with  a  wobbly  motion, 
all  the  time  making  dance-like  movements  with  its  legs  as  if 
some  one  were  switching  its  hoofs.  When  he  had  drawn  rein 
level  with  the  officers  the  rider  doffed  his  cap  and  said  cere 
moniously — 

"His  Excellency,  General  von  Rabbek,  whose  house  is  close 
by,  requests  the  honour  of  the  officers'  company  at  tea.  .  .  ." 

The  horse  shook  its  head,  danced,  and  wobbled  to  the 
rear;  its  rider  again  took  off  his  cap,  and,  turning  his  strange 
steed,  disappeared  behind  the  church. 

"The  devil  take  it!"  was  the  general  exclamation  as  the 
officers  dispersed  to  their  quarters.  "We  can  hardly  keep  our 
eyes  open,  yet  along  comes  this  von  Rabbek  with  his  tea! 
I  know  that  tea!" 

The  officers  of  the  six  batteries  had  lively  memories  of  a 
past  invitation.  During  recent  manoeuvres  they  had  been 
asked,  together  with  their  Cossack  comrades,  to  tea  at  the 
house  of  a  local  country  gentleman,  an  officer  in  retirement, 
by  title  a  Count;  and  this  hearty,  hospitable  Count  over- 


92  ROTHSCHILD'S  FIDDLE 

whelmed  them  with  attentions,  fed  them  to  satiety,  poured 
vodka  down  their  throats,  and  made  them  stay  the  night. 
All  this,  of  course,  they  enjoyed.  The  trouble  was  that  the 
old  soldier  entertained  his  guests  too  well.  He  kept  them 
up  till  daybreak  while  he  poured  forth  tales  of  past  adven 
tures;  he  dragged  them  from  room  to  room  to  point  out 
valuable  paintings,  old  engravings,  and  rare  arms;  he  read 
them  holograph  letters  from  celebrated  men.  And  the  weary 
officers,  bored  to  death,  listened,  gaped,  yearned  for  their 
beds,  and  yawned  cautiously  in  their  sleeves,  until  at  last 
when  their  host  released  them  it  was  too  late  for  sleep. 

Was  von  Rabbek  another  old  Count?  It  might  easily  be. 
But  there  was  no  neglecting  his  invitation.  The  officers 
washed  and  dressed,  and  set  out  for  von  Rabbek's  house. 
At  the  church  square  they  learnt  that  they  must  descend 
the  hill  to  the  river,  and  follow  the  bank  till  they  reached 
the  general's  gardens,  where  they  would  find  a  path  direct  to 
the  house.  Or,  if  they  chose  to  go  up  hill,  they  would  reach 
the  general's  barns  half  a  verst  from  Miestetchki.  It  was  this 
route  they  chose. 

"But  who  is  this  von  Rabbek?"  asked  one.  "The  man 
who  commanded  the  N  Cavalry  Division  at  Plevna?" 

"No,  that  was  not  von  Rabbek,  but  simply  Rabbe — with 
out  the  von." 

"What  glorious  weather!" 

At  the  first  barn  they  came  to,  two  roads  diverged;  one 
ran  straight  forward  and  faded  in  the  dusk;  the  other  turn 
ing  to  the  right  led  to  the  general's  house.  As  the  officers 
drew  near  they  talked  less  loudly.  To  right  and  left  stretched 
rows  of  red-roofed  brick  barns,  in  aspect  heavy  and  morose 
as  the  barracks  of  provincial  towns.  In  front  gleamed  the 
lighted  windows  of  von  Rabbek's  house. 

"A  good  omen,  gentlemen!"  cried  a  young  officer.  "Our 
setter  runs  in  advance.  There  is  game  ahead ! " 

On  the  face  of  Lieutenant  Lobytko,  the  tall  stout  officer 
referred  to,  there  was  not  one  trace  of  hair  though  he  was 
twenty-five  years  old.  He  was  famed  among  comrades  for 


THE  KISS  93 

the  instinct  which  told  him  of  the  presence  of  women  in  the 
neighbourhood.  On  hearing  his  comrade's  remark,  he  turned 
his  head  and  said — 

"Yes.     There  are  women  there.     My  instinct  tells  me." 

A  handsome,  well-preserved  man  of  sixty,  in  mufti,  came  to 
the  hall  door  to  greet  his  guests.  It  was  von  Rabbek.  As  he 
pressed  their  hands,  he  explained  that  though  he  was  de 
lighted  to  see  them,  he  must  beg  pardon  for  not  asking  them 
to  spend  the  night;  as  guests  he  already  had  his  two  sisters, 
their  children,  his  brother,  and  several  neighbours — in  fact, 
he  had  not  one  spare  room.  And  though  he  shook  their 
hands  and  apologised  and  smiled,  it  was  plain  that  he  was 
not  half  as  glad  to  see  them  as  was  last  year's  Count,  and 
that  he  had  invited  them  merely  because  good  manners  de 
manded  it.  The  officers  climbing  the  soft-carpeted  steps  and 
listening  to  their  host  understood  this  perfectly  well;  and 
realised  that  they  carried  into  the  house  an  atmosphere  of 
intrusion  and  alarm.  Would  any  man — they  asked  them 
selves — who  had  gathered  his  two  sisters  and  their  children, 
his  brother  and  his  neighbours,  to  celebrate,  no  doubt,  some 
family  festival,  find  pleasure  in  the  invasion  of  nineteen  of 
ficers  whom  he  had  never  seen  before? 

A  tall,  elderly  lady,  with  a  good  figure,  and  a  long  face 
with  black  eyebrows,  who  resembled  closely  the  ex-Empress 
Eugenie,  greeted  them  at  the  drawing-room  door.  Smiling 
courteously  and  with  dignity,  she  affirmed  that  she  was 
delighted  to  see  the  officers,  and  only  regretted  that  she  could 
not  ask  them  to  stay  the  night.  But  the  courteous,  dignified 
smile  disappeared  when  she  turned  away,  and  it  was  quite 
plain  that  she  had  seen  many  officers  in  her  day,  that  they 
caused  not  the  slightest  interest,  and  that  she  had  invited 
them  merely  because  an  invitation  was  dictated  by  good 
breeding  and  by  her  position  in  the  world. 

In  a  big  dining-room  seated  at  a  big  table  sat  ten  men 
and  women,  drinking  tea.  Behind  them,  veiled  in  cigar- 
smoke,  stood  several  young  men,  among  them  one,  red- 
whiskered  and  <extremeli.  thin,  who  spoke  English  loudly  with 


94  ROTHSCHILD'S  FIDDLE 

a  lisp.  Through  an  open  door  the  officers  saw  into  a  brightly 
lighted  room  with  blue  wall-paper. 

"You  are  too  many  to  introduce  singly,  gentlemen!"  said 
the  general  loudly,  with  affected  joviality.  "Make  one  an 
other's  acquaintance,  please — without  formalities!" 

The  visitors,  some  with  serious,  even  severe  faces,  some 
smiling  constrainedly,  all  with  a  feeling  of  awkwardness, 
bowed,  and  took  their  seats  at  the  table.  Most  awkward  of 
all  felt  Staff-Captain  Riabovich,  a  short,  round-shouldered, 
spectacled  officer,  whiskered  like  a  lynx.  While  his  brother 
officers  looked  serious  or  smiled  constrainedly,  his  face,  his 
lynx  whiskers,  and  his  spectacles  seemed  to  explain:  "I  am 
the  most  timid,  modest,  undistinguished  officer  in  the  whole 
brigade."  For  some  time  after  he  took  his  seat  at  the  table 
he  could  not  fix  his  attention  on  any  single  thing.  Faces, 
dresses,  the  cut-glass  cognac  bottles,  the  steaming  tumblers, 
the  moulded  cornices — all  merged  in  a  single,  overwhelming 
sentiment  which  caused  him  intense  fright  and  made  him  wish 
to  hide  his  head.  Like  an  inexperienced  lecturer  he  saw 
everything  before  him,  but  could  distinguish  nothing, 
and  was  in  fact  the  victim  of  what  men  of  science  diagnose 
as  "psychical  blindness." 

But  slowly  conquering  his  diffidence,  Riabovich  began  to 
distinguish  and  observe.  As  became  a  man  both  timid  and 
unsocial,  he  remarked  first  of  all  the  amazing  temerity  of  his 
new  friends.  Van  Rabbek,  his  wife,  two  elderly  ladies,  a  girl 
in  lilac,  and  the  red-whiskered  youth  who,  it  appeared,  was  a 
young  von  Rabbek,  sat  down  among  the  officers  as  uncon 
cernedly  as  if  they  had  held  rehearsals,  and  at  once  plunged 
into  various  heated  arguments  in  which  they  soon  involved 
their  guests.  That  artillerists  have  a  much  better  time  than 
cavalrymen  or  infantrymen  was  proved  conclusively  by  the 
lilac  girl,  while  von  Rabbek  and  the  elderly  ladies  affirmed 
the  converse.  The  consternation  became  desultory.  Riabovich 
listened  to  the  lilac  girl  fiercely  debating  themes  she  knew 
nothing  about  and  took  no  interest  in,  and  watched  the  insin 
cere  smiles  which  appeared  on  and  disappeared  from  her  face. 


THE  KISS  95 

While  the  von  Rabbek  family  with  amazing  strategy  in 
veigled  their  guests  into  the  dispute,  they  kept  their  eyes  on 
every  glass  and  mouth.  Had  every  one  tea,  was  it  sweet 
enough,  why  didn't  one  eat  biscuits,  was  another  fond  of 
cognac?  And  the  longer  Riabovich  listened  and  looked,  the 
more  pleased  he  was  with  this  disingenuous,  disciplined 
family. 

After  tea  the  guests  repaired  to  the  drawing-room.  In 
stinct  had  not  cheated  Lobytko.  The  room  was  packed  with 
young  women  and  girls,  and  ere  a  minute  had  passed  the 
setter-lieutenant  stood  beside  a  very  young,  fair-haired  girl  in 
black,  and,  bending  down  as  if  resting  on  an  invisible  sword, 
shrugged  his  shoulders  coquettishly.  He  was  uttering,  no 
doubt,  most  unentertaining  nonsense,  for  the  fair  girl  looked 
indulgently  at  his  sated  face,  and  exclaimed  indifferently, 
"Indeed!"  And  this  indifferent  "Indeed!"  might  have 
quickly  convinced  the  setter  that  he  was  on  a  wrong  scent. 

Music  began.  As  the  notes  of  a  mournful  valse  throbbed 
out  of  the  open  window,  through  the  heads  of  all  flashed  the 
feeling  that  outside  that  window  it  was  spring-time,  a  night 
of  May.  The  air  was  odourous  of  young  poplar  leaves,  of 
roses  and  lilacs — and  the  valse  and  the  spring  were  sincere. 
Riabovich,  with  valse  and  cognac  mingling  tipsily  in  his  head, 
gazed  at  the  window  with  a  smile;  then  began  to  follow 
the  movements  of  the  women;  and  it  seemed  that  the  smell 
of  roses,  poplars,  and  lilacs  came  not  from  the  gardens  out 
side,  but  from  the  women's  faces  and  dresses. 

They  began  to  dance.  Young  von  Rabbek  valsed  twice 
round  the  room  with  a  very  thin  girl;  and  Lobytko,  slipping 
on  the  parquetted  floor,  went  up  to  the  girl  in  lilac,  and 
was  granted  a  dance.  But  Riabovich  stood  near  the  door 
with  the  wall-flowers,  and  looked  silently  on.  Amazed  at  the 
daring  of  men  who  in  sight  of  a  crowd  could  take  unknown 
women  by  the  waist,  he  tried  in  vain  to  picture  himself  doing 
the  same.  A  time  had  been  when  he  envied  his  comrades 
their  courage  and  dash,  suffered  from  painful  heart-search- 
ings,  and  was  hurt  by  the  knowledge  that  he  was  timid, 


96  ROTHSCHILD'S  FIDDLE 

round-shouldered,  and  undistinguished,  that  he  had  lynx 
whiskers,  and  that  his  waist  was  much  too  long.  But  with 
years  he  had  grown  reconciled  to  his  own  insignificance,  and 
now  looking  at  the  dancers  and  loud  talkers,  he  felt  no  envy, 
but  only  mournful  emotions. 

At  the  first  quadrille  von  Rabbek  junior  approached  and 
invited  two  non-dancing  officers  to  a  game  of  billiards.  The 
three  left  the  room;  and  Riabovich  who  stood  idle,  and  felt 
impelled  to  join  in  the  general  movement,  followed.  They 
passed  the  dining-room,  traversed  a  narrow  glazed  corridor, 
and  a  room  where  three  sleepy  footmen  jumped  from  a 
sofa  with  a  start;  and  after  walking,  it  seemed,  through 
a  whole  houseful  of  rooms,  entered  a  small  billiard-room. 

Von  Rabbek  and  the  two  officers  began  their  game.  Riabo 
vich,  whose  only  game  was  cards,  stood  near  the  table  and 
looked  indifferently  on,  as  the  players,  with  unbuttoned  coats, 
wielded  their  cues,  moved  about,  joked,  and  shouted  obscure 
technical  terms.  Riabovich  was  ignored,  save  when  one  of 
the  players  jostled  him  or  caught  his  cue,  and  turning  to 
wards  him  said  briefly,  "Pardon!"  so  that  before  the  game 
was  over  he  was  thoroughly  bored,  and  impressed  by  a  sense 
of  his  superfluity,  resolved  to  return  to  the  drawing-room, 
and  turned  away. 

It  was  on  the  way  back  that  his  adventure  took  place. 
Before  he  had  gone  far  he  saw  that  he  had  missed  the  way. 
He  remembered  distinctly  the  room  with  the  three  sleepy 
footmen ;  and  after  passing  through  five  or  six  rooms  entirely 
vacant,  he  saw  his  mistake.  Retracing  his  steps,  he  turned 
to  the  left,  and  found  himself  in  an  almost  dark  room  which 
he  had  not  seen  before;  and  after  hesitating  a  minute,  he 
boldly  opened  the  first  door  he  saw,  and  found  himself  in 
complete  darkness.  Through  a  chink  of  the  door  in  front 
peered  a  bright  light;  from  afar  throbbed  the  dulled  music 
of  a  mournful  mazurka.  Here,  as  in  the  drawing-room,  the 
windows  were  open  wide,  and  the  smell  of  poplars,  lilacs, 
and  roses  flooded  the  air. 

Riabovich  paused  in  irresolution.     For  a  moment  all  was 


THE  KISS  97 

still.  Then  came  the  sound  of  hasty  footsteps;  then,  without 
any  warning  of  what  was  to  come,  a  dress  rustled,  a  woman's 
breathless  voice  whispered  "At  last!"  and  two  soft,  scented, 
unmistakably  womanly  arms  met  round  his  neck,  a  warm 
cheek  impinged  on  his,  and  he  received  a  sounding  kiss. 
But  hardly  had  the  kiss  echoed  through  the  silence  when 
the  unknown  shrieked  loudly,  and  fled  away — as  it  seemed 
to  Riabovich — in  disgust.  Riabovich  himself  nearly 
screamed,  and  rushed  headlong  towards  the  bright  beam  in 
the  door-chink. 

As  he  entered  the  drawing-room  his  heart  beat  violently, 
and  his  hands  trembled  so  perceptibly  that  he  clasped  them 
behind  his  back.  His  first  emotion  was  shame,  as  if  every 
one  in  the  room  already  knew  that  he  had  just  been  em 
braced  and  kissed.  He  retired  into  his  shell,  and  looked 
fearfully  around.  But  finding  that  hosts  and  guests  were 
calmly  dancing  or  talking,  he  regained  courage,  and  sur 
rendered  himself  to  sensations  experienced  for  the  first  time 
in  life.  The  unexampled  had  happened.  His  neck,  fresh 
from  the  embrace  of  two  soft,  scented  arms,  seemed  anointed 
with  oil;  near  his  left  moustache,  where  the  kiss  had  fallen, 
trembled  a  slight,  delightful  chill,  as  from  peppermint  drops; 
and  from  head  to  foot  he  was  soaked  in  new  and  extraor 
dinary  sensations,  which  continued  to  grow  and  grow. 

He  felt  that  he  must  dance,  talk,  run  into  the  garden,  laugh 
unrestrainedly.  He  forgot  altogether  that  he  was  round- 
shouldered,  undistinguished,  lynx-whiskered,  that  he  had  an 
"indefinite  exterior" — a  description  from  the  lips  of  a  woman 
he  had  happened  to  overhear.  As  Madame  von  Rabbek 
passed  him  he  smiled  so  broadly  and  graciously  that  she 
came  up  and  looked  at  him  questioningly. 

"What  a  charming  house  you  have!"  he  said,  straighten 
ing  his  spectacles. 

And  Madame  von  Rabbek  smiled  back,  said  that  the 
house  still  belonged  to  her  father,  and  asked  were  his  parents 
alive,  how  long  he  had  been  in  the  Army,  and  why  he  was 
so  thin.  After  hearing  his  answers  she  departed.  But 


98  ROTHSCHILD'S  FIDDLE 

though  the  conversation  was  over,  he  continued  to  smile 
benevolently,  and  think  what  charming  people  were  his  new 
acquaintances. 

At  supper  Riabovich  ate  and  drank  mechanically  what 
was  put  before  him,  heard  not  a  word  of  the  conversation, 
and  devoted  all  his  powers  to  the  unravelling  of  his  myste 
rious,  romantic  adventure.  What  was  the  explanation?  It 
was  plain  that  one  of  the  girls,  he  reasoned,  had  arranged 
a  meeting  in  the  dark  room,  and  after  waiting  some  time  in 
vain  had,  in  her  nervous  tension,  mistaken  Riabovich  for 
her  hero.  The  mistake  was  likely  enough,  for  on  entering 
the  dark  room  Riabovich  had  stopped  irresolutely  as  if  he, 
too,  were  waiting  for  some  one.  So  far  the  mystery  was 
explained. 

"But  which  of  them  was  it?"  he  asked,  searching  the 
women's  faces.  She  certainly  was  young,  for  old  women  do 
not  indulge  in  such  romances.  Secondly,  she  was  not  a  ser 
vant.  That  was  proved  unmistakably  by  the  rustle  of  her 
dress,  the  scent,  the  voice  .  .  . 

When  at  first  he  looked  at  the  girl  in  lilac  she  pleased  him ; 
she  had  pretty  shoulders  and  arms,  a  clever  face,  a  charming 
voice.  Riabovich  piously  prayed  that  it  was  she.  But, 
smiling  insincerely,  she  wrinkled  her  long  nose,  and  that  at 
once  gave  her  an  elderly  air.  So  Riabovich  turned  his  eyes 
on  the  blonde  in  black.  The  blonde  was  younger,  simpler, 
sincerer;  she  had  charming  kiss-curls,  and  drank  from  her 
tumbler  with  inexpressible  grace.  Riabovich  hoped  it  was 
she — but  soon  he  noticed  that  her  face  was  flat,  and  bent  his 
eyes  on  her  neighbour. 

"It  is  a  hopeless  puzzle,"  he  reflected.  "If  you  take  the 
arms  and  shoulders  of  the  lilac  girl,  add  the  blonde's  curls, 
and  the  eyes  of  the  girl  on  Lobytko's  left,  then — 

He  composed  a  portrait  of  all  these  charms,  and  had  a 
clear  vision  of  the  girl  who  had  kissed  him.  But  she  was 
nowhere  to  be  seen. 

Supper  over,  the  visitors,  sated  and  tipsy,  bade  their  enter- 


THE  KISS  99 

tainers  good-bye.  Both  host  and  hostess  again  apologised 
for  not  asking  them  to  spend  the  night. 

"I  am  very  glad,  very  glad,  gentlemen!"  said  the  general, 
and  this  time  seemed  to  speak  sincerely,  no  doubt  because 
speeding  the  parting  guest  is  a  kindlier  office  than  welcoming 
him  unwelcomed.  "I  am  very  glad  indeed!  I  hope  you  will 
visit  me  on  your  way  back.  Without  ceremony,  please! 
Which  way  will  you  go?  Up  the  hill?  No,  go  down  the 
hill  and  through  the  garden.  That  way  is  shorter." 

The  officers  took  his  advice.  After  the  noise  and  glaring 
illumination  within  doors,  the  garden  seemed  dark  and  still. 
Until  they  reached  the  wicket-gate  all  kept  silence.  Merry, 
half  tipsy,  and  content,  as  they  were,  the  night's  obscurity 
and  stillness  inspired  pensive  thoughts.  Through  their  brains, 
as  through  Riabovich's,  sped  probably  the  same  question: 
"Will  the  time  ever  come  when  I,  like  von  Rabbek,  shall 
have  a  big  house,  a  family,  a  garden,  the  chance  of  being 
gracious — even  insincerely — to  others,  of  making  them  sated, 
tipsy,  and  content?" 

But  once  the  garden  lay  behind  them,  all  spoke  at  once, 
and  burst  into  causeless  laughter.  The  path  they  followed 
led  straight  to  the  river,  and  then  ran  beside  it,  winding 
around  bushes,  ravines,  and  over-hanging  willow-trees.  The 
track  was  barely  visible;  the  other  bank  was  lost  entirely 
in  gloom.  Sometimes  the  black  water  imaged  stars,  and  this 
was  the  only  indication  of  the  river's  speed.  From  beyond  it 
sighed  a  drowsy  snipe,  and  beside  them  in  a  bush,  heedless 
of  the  crowd,  a  nightingale  chanted  loudly.  The  officers 
gathered  in  a  group,  and  swayed  the  bush,  but  the  nightingale 
continued  his  song. 

"I  like  his  cheek!"  they  echoed  admiringly.  "He  doesn't 
care  a  kopeck!  The  old  rogue!" 

Near  their  journey's  end  the  path  turned  up  the  hill,  and 
joined  the  road  not  far  from  the  church  enclosure;  and  there 
the  officers,  breathless  from  climbing,  sat  on  the  grass  and 
smoked.  Across  the  river  gleamed  a  dull  red  light,  and  for 
want  of  a  subject  they  argued  the  problem,  whether  it  was 


ioo  ROTHSCHILD'S  FIDDLE 

a  bonfire,  a  window-light,  or  something  else.  Riabovich 
looked  also  at  the  light,  and  felt  that  it  smiled  and  winked 
at  him  as  if  it  knew  about  the  kiss. 

On  reaching  home,  he  undressed  without  delay,  and  lay 
upon  his  bed.  He  shared  the  cabin  with  Lobytko  and  a 
Lieutenant  Marzliakov,  a  staid,  silent  little  man,  by  repute 
highly  cultivated,  who  took  with  him  everywhere  The  Mes 
senger  of  Europe,  and  read  it  eternally.  Lobytko  undressed, 
tramped  impatiently  from  corner  to  corner,  and  sent  his  ser 
vant  for  beer.  Merzliakov  lay  down,  balanced  the  candle 
on  his  pillow,  and  hid  his  head  behind  The  Messenger  of 
Europe. 

"Where  is  she  now?"  muttered  Riabovich,  looking  at  the 
soot-blacked  ceiling. 

His  neck  still  seemed  anointed  with  oil,  near  his  mouth 
still  trembled  the  speck  of  peppermint  chill.  Through  his 
brain  twinkled  successively  the  shoulders  and  arms  of  the 
lilac  girl,  the  kiss-curls  and  honest  eyes  of  the  girl  in  black, 
the  waists,  dresses,  brooches.  But  though  he  tried  his  best 
to  fix  these  vagrant  images,  they  glimmered,  winked,  and  dis 
solved;  and  as  they  faded  finally  into  the  vast  black  curtain 
which  hangs  before  the  closed  eyes  of  all  men,  he  began  to 
hear  hurried  footsteps,  the  rustle  of  petticoats,  the  sound  of 
a  kiss.  A  strong,  causeless  joy  possessed  him.  But  as  he 
surrendered  himself  to  this  joy,  Lobytko 's  servant  returned 
with  the  news  that  no  beer  was  obtainable.  The  lieutenant 
resumed  his  impatient  march  up  and  down  the  room. 

"The  fellow's  an  idiot,"  he  exclaimed,  stopping  first  near 
Riabovich  and  then  near  Merzliakov.  "Only  the  worst 
numbskull  and  blockhead  can't  get  beer!  Canaille!" 

"Every  one  knows  there's  no  beer  here,"  said  Merzliakov, 
without  lifting  his  eyes  from  The  Messenger  of  Europe. 

"You  believe  that! "  exclaimed  Lobytko.  "Lord  in  heaven, 
drop  me  on  the  moon,  and  in  five  minutes  I'll  find  both  beer 
and  women!  I  will  find  them  myself!  Call  me  a  rascal  if  I 
don't!" 


THE  KISS  101 

He  dressed  slowly,  silently  lighted  a  cigarette,  and  v:ent 
out. 

"Rabbek,  Grabbek,  Labbek,"  he  muttered,  stopping  in  the 
hall.  "I  won't  go  alone,  devil  take  me!  Riabovich,  come 
for  a  walk!  What?" 

As  he  got  no  answer,  he  returned,  undressed  slowly,  and 
lay  down.  Merzliakov  sighed,  dropped  The  Messenger  of 
Europe,  and  put  out  the  light.  "Well?"  muttered  Lobytko, 
puffing  his  cigarette  in  the  dark. 

Riabovich  pulled  the  bed-clothes  up  to  his  chin,  curled 
himself  into  a  roll,  and  strained  his  imagination  to  join  the 
twinkling  images  into  one  coherent  whole.  But  the  vision 
fled  him.  He  soon  fell  asleep,  and  his  last  impression  was 
that  he  had  been  caressed  and  gladdened,  that  into  his  life 
had  crept  something  strange,  and  indeed  ridiculous,  but  un 
commonly  good  and  radiant.  And  this  thought  did  not  for 
sake  him  even  in  his  dreams. 

When  he  awoke  the  feeling  of  anointment  and  peppermint 
chill  were  gone.  But  joy,  as  on  the  night  before,  filled  every 
vein.  He  looked  entranced  at  the  window-panes  gilded  by 
the  rising  sun,  and  listened  to  the  noises  outside.  Some  one 
spoke  loudly  under  the  very  window.  It  was  Lebedietsky, 
commander  of  his  battery,  who  had  just  overtaken  the  bri 
gade.  He  was  talking  to  the  sergeant-major,  loudly,  owing 
to  lack  of  practice  in  soft  speech. 

"And  what  next?"  he  roared. 

"During  yesterday's  shoeing,  your  honour,  Golubtchik  was 
pricked.  The  jeldscher  ordered  clay  and  vinegar.  And  last 
night,  your  honour,  mechanic  Artemieff  was  drunk,  and  the 
lieutenant  ordered  him  to  be  put  on  the  limber  of  the  reserve 
gun-carriage." 

The  sergeant-major  added  that  Karpov  had  forgotten  the 
tent-pegs  and  the  new  lanyards  for  the  friction-tubes,  and 
that  the  officers  had  spent  the  evening  at  General  von  Rab- 
bek's.  But  here  at  the  window  appeared  Lebedetzky's  red- 
bearded  face.  He  blinked  his  short-sighted  eyes  at  tne 
drowsy  men  in  bed,  and  greeted  them. 


102  ROTHSCHILD'S  FIDDLE 

"Is  everything  all  right?" 

"The  saddle  wheeler  galled  his  withers  with  the  new  yoke," 
answered  Lobytko. 

The  commander  sighed,  mused  a  moment,  and  shouted — 

"I  am  thinking  of  calling  on  Alexandra  Yegorovna.  I 
want  to  see  her.  Good-bye!  I  will  catch  you  up  before 
night." 

Fifteen  minutes  later  the  brigade  resumed  its  march.  As 
he  passed  von  Rabbek's  barns  Riabovich  turned  his  head 
and  looked  at  the  house.  The  Venetian  blinds  were  down; 
evidently  all  still  slept.  And  among  them  slept  she — she 
who  had  kissed  him  but  a  few  hours  before.  He  tried  to 
visualise  her  asleep.  He  projected  the  bedroom  window 
opened  wide  with  green  branches  peering  in,  the  freshness  of 
the  morning  air,  the  smell  of  poplars,  lilacs,  and  roses,  the 
bed,  a  chair,  the  dress  which  rustled  last  night,  a  pair  of 
tiny  slippers,  a  ticking  watch  on  the  table — all  these  came 
to  him  clearly  with  every  detail.  But  the  features,  the  kind, 
sleepy  smile — all,  in  short,  that  was  essential  and  character 
istic — fled  his  imagination  as  quicksilver  flees  the  hand. 
When  he  had  covered  half  a  verst  he  again  turned  back.  The 
yellow  church,  the  house,  gardens,  and  river  were  bathed  in 
light.  Imaging  an  azure  sky,  the  green-banked  river  specked 
with  silver  sunshine  flakes  was  inexpressibly  fair;  and,  look 
ing  at  Miestechky  for  the  last  time,  Riabovich  felt  sad,  as 
if  parting  for  ever  with  something  very  near  and  dear. 

By  the  road  before  him  stretched  familiar,  uninteresting 
scenes;  to  the  right  and  left,  fields  of  young  rye  and  buck 
wheat  with  hopping  rooks;  in  front,  dust  and  the  napes  of 
human  necks;  behind,  the  same  dust  and  faces.  Ahead  of 
the  column  marched  four  soldiers  with  swords — that  was 
the  advance  guard.  Next  came  the  bandsmen.  Advance 
guard  and  bandsmen,  like  mutes  in  a  funeral  procession,  ig 
nored  the  regulation  intervals  and  marched  too  far  ahead. 
Riabovich,  with  the  first  gun  of  Battery  No.  5,  could  see  four 
batteries  ahead. 

To  a  layman,  the  long,  lumbering  march  of  an  artillery 


KISS  103 

brigade  is  novel,  interesting,  inexplicable.  It  is  hard  to  under 
stand  why  a  single  gun  needs  so  many  men;  why  so  many, 
such  strangely  harnessed  horses  are  needed  to  drag  it.  But 
to  Riabovich,  a  master  of  a11  these  things,  it  was  profoundly 
dull.  He  had  learned  years  ago  why  a  solid  sergeant-major 
rides  beside  the  officer  in  front  of  each  battery ,  why  the  ser 
geant-major  is  called  the  unosni,  and  why  the  drivers  of 
leaders  and  wheelers  ride  behind  him.  Riabovich  knew  why 
the  near  horses  are  called  saddle-horses,  and  why  the  off 
horses  are  called  led-horses — and  all  of  this  was  interesting 
beyond  words.  On  one  of  the  wheelers  rode  a  soldier  still 
covered  with  yesterday's  dust,  and  with  a  cumbersome,  ri 
diculous  guard  on  his  right  leg.  But  Riabovich,  knowing  the 
use  of  this  leg-guard,  found  it  in  no  way  ridiculous.  The 
drivers,  mechanically  and  with  occasional  cries,  flourished 
their  whips.  The  guns  in  themselves  were  impressive.  The 
limbers  were  packed  with  tarpaulin-covered  sacks  of  oats; 
and  the  guns  themselves,  hung  around  with  tea-pots  and 
satchels,  looked  like  harmless  animals,  guarded  for  some  ob 
scure  reason  by  men  and  horses.  In  the  lee  of  the  gun 
tramped  six  gunners,  swinging  their  arms;  and  behind  each 
gun  came  more  unosniye,  leaders,  wheelers;  and  yet  more 
guns,  each  as  ugly  and  uninspiring  as  the  one  in  front.  And 
as  every  one  of  the  six  batteries  in  the  brigade  had  four 
guns,  the  procession  stretched  along  the  road  at  least  half 
a  verst.  It  ended  with  a  wagon  train,  with  which,  its  head 
bent  in  thought,  walked  the  donkey  Magar,  brought  from 
Turkey  by  a  battery  commander. 

Dead  to  his  surroundings,  Riabovich  marched  onward, 
looking  at  the  napes  ahead  or  at  the  faces  behind.  Had  it 
not  been  for  last  night's  event,  he  would  have  been  half 
asleep.  But  now  he  was  absorbed  in  novel,  entrancing 
thoughts.  When  the  brigade  set  out  that  morning  he  had 
tried  to  argue  that  the  kiss  had  no  significance  save  as  a 
trivial  though  mysterious  adventure;  that  it  was  without  real 
import;  and  that  to  think  of  it  seriously  was  to  behave  him 
self  absurdly.  But  logic  soon  flew  away  and  surrendered 


104  ROTHSCHILD'S  FIDDLE 

him  to  his  vivid  imaginings.  At  times  he  saw  himself  in  von 
Rabbek's  dining-room,  tete-a-tete  with  a  composite  being, 
formed  of  the  girl  in  lilac  and  the  blonde  in  black.  At  times 
he  closed  his  eyes,  and  pictured  himself  with  a  different,  this 
time  quite  an  unknown,  girl  of  cloudy  feature;  he  spoke 
to  her,  caressed  her,  bent  over  her  shoulder ;  he  imagined  war 
and  parting  .  .  .  then  reunion,  the  first  supper  together,  chil 
dren.  .  .  . 

"To  the  brakes!"  rang  the  command  as  they  topped  the 
brow  of  each  hill. 

Riabovich  also  cried  "To  the  brakes!"  and  each  time 
dreaded  that  the  cry  would  break  the  magic  spell,  and  recall 
him  to  realities. 

They  passed  a  big  country  house.  Riabovich  looked  across 
the  fence  into  the  garden,  and  saw  a  long  path,  straight  as 
a  ruler,  carpeted  with  yellow  sand,  and  shaded  by  young 
birches.  In  an  ecstasy  of  enchantment,  he  pictured  little 
feminine  feet  treading  the  yellow  sand;  and,  in  a  flash,  imag 
ination  restored  the  woman  who  had  kissed  him,  the  woman 
he  had  visualised  after  supper  the  night  before.  The  image 
settled  in  his  brain  and  never  afterwards  forsook  him. 

The  spell  reigned  until  midday,  when  a  loud  command 
came  from  the  rear  of  the  column. 

"Attention !    Eyes  right !    Officers ! " 

In  a  caleche  drawn  by  a  pair  of  white  horses  appeared 
the  general  of  brigade.  He  stopped  at  the  second  battery, 
and  called  out  something  which  no  one  understood.  Up 
galloped  several  officers,  among  them  Riabovich. 

"Well,  how  goes  it?"  The  general  blinked  his  red  eyes, 
and  continued,  "Are  there  any  sick?" 

Hearing  the  answer,  the  little  skinny  general  mused  a 
moment,  turned  to  an  officer,  and  said — 

"The  driver  of  your  third-gun  wheeler  has  taken  off  his 
leg-guard  and  hung  it  on  the  limber.  Canaille!  Punish 
him!" 

Then  raising  his  eyes  to  Riabovich,  he  added — 

"And  in  your  battery,  I  think,  the  harness  is  too  loose." 


THE  KISS  105 

Having  made  several  other  equally  tiresome  remarks,  he 
looked  at  Lobytko,  and  laughed. 

"Why  do  you  look  so  downcast,  Lieutenant  Lobytko? 
You  are  sighing  for  Madame  Lopukhov,  eh?  Gentlemen, 
he  is  pining  for  Madame  Lopukhov!" 

Madame  Lopukhov  was  a  tall,  stout  lady,  long  past  forty. 
Being  partial  to  big  women,  regardless  of  age,  the  general 
ascribed  the  same  taste  to  his  subordinates.  The  officers 
smiled  respectfully;  and  the  general,  pleased  that  he  had 
said  something  caustic  and  laughable,  touched  the  coach 
man's  back  and  saluted.  The  caleche  whirled  away. 

"All  this,  though  it  seems  to  me  impossible  and  unearthly, 
is  in  reality  very  commonplace,"  thought  Riabovich,  watch 
ing  the  clouds  of  dust  raised  by  the  general's  carriage.  "It 
is  an  everyday  event,  and  within  every  one's  experience.  .  .  . 
This  old  general,  for  instance,  must  have  loved  in  his  day; 
he  is  married  now,  and  has  children.  Captain  Wachter  is 
also  married,  and  his  wife  loves  him,  though  he  has  an  ugly 
red  neck  and  no  waist.  .  .  .  Salmanoff  is  coarse,  and  a 
typical  Tartar,  but  he  has  had  a  romance  ending  in  mar 
riage.  ...  I,  like  the  rest,  must  go  through  it  all  sooner  or 
later." 

And  the  thought  that  he  was  an  ordinary  man,  and  thai 
his  life  was  ordinary,  rejoiced  and  consoled  him.  He  boldly 
visualised  her  and  his  happiness,  and  let  his  imagination  run 
mad. 

Towards  evening  the  brigade  ended  its  march.  While  the 
other  officers  sprawled  in  their  tents,  Riabovich,  Merzliakov, 
and  Lobytko  sat  around  a  packing-case  and  supped.  Merz 
liakov  ate  slowly,  and,  resting  The  Messenger  of  Europe  on 
his  knees,  read  on  steadily.  Lobytko,  chattering  without 
cease,  poured  beer  into  his  glass.  But  Riabovich,  whose  head 
was  dizzy  from  uninterrupted  day-dreams,  ate  in  silence. 
When  he  had  drunk  three  glasses  he  felt  tipsy  and  weak; 
and  an  overmastering  impulse  forced  him  to  relate  his  ad 
venture  to  his  comrades. 

UA  most  extraordinary  thing  Jiappened  to  me  at  von  Rar> 


io6  ROTHSCHILD'S  FIDDLE 

bek's,"  he  began,  doing  his  best  to  speak  in  an  indifferent, 
ironical  tone.  "I  was  on  my  way,  you  understand,  from  the 
billiard-room.  ..." 

And  he  attempted  to  give  a  very  detailed  history  of  the 
kiss.  But  in  a  minute  he  had  told  the  whole  story.  In  that 
minute  he  had  exhausted  every  detail;  and  it  seemed  to 
him  terrible  that  the  story  required  such  a  short  time.  It 
ought,  he  felt,  to  have  lasted  all  the  night.  As  he  finished, 
Lobytko,  who  as  a  liar  himself  believed  in  no  one,  laughed 
incredulously.  Merzliakov  frowned,  and,  with  his  eyes  still 
glued  to  The  Messenger  of  Europe,  said  indifferently — 

"God  knows  who  it  was!  She  threw  herself  on  your  neck, 
you  say,  and  didn't  cry  out!  Some  lunatic,  I  expect!" 

"It  must  have  been  a  lunatic,"  agreed  Riabovich. 

"I,  too,  have  had  adventures  of  that  kind,"  began  Lobytko, 
making  a  frightened  face.  "I  was  on  my  way  to  Kovno. 
I  travelled  second  class.  The  carriage  was  packed,  and  I 
couldn't  sleep.  So  I  gave  the  guard  a  ruble,  and  he  took 
my  bag,  and  put  me  in  a  coupe.  I  lay  down,  and  pulled  my 
rug  over  me.  It  was  pitch  dark,  you  understand.  Suddenly 
I  felt  some  one  tapping  my  shoulder  and  breathing  in  my 
face.  I  stretched  out  my  hand,  and  felt  an  elbow.  Then  I 
opened  my  eyes.  Imagine!  A  woman!  Coal-black  eyes, 
lips  red  as  good  coral,  nostrils  breathing  passion,  breasts — 
buffers!" 

"Draw  it  mild!"  interrupted  Merzliakov  in  his  quiet  voice. 
"I  can  believe  about  the  breasts,  but  if  it  was  pitch  dark  how 
could  you  see  the  lips?" 

By  laughing  at  Merzliakov 's  lack  of  understanding,  Lo 
bytko  tried  to  shuffle  out  of  the  dilemma.  The  story  annoyed 
Riabovich.  He  rose  from  the  box,  lay  on  his  bed,  and  swore 
that  he  would  never  again  take  any  one  into  his  confidence. 

Life  in  camp  passed  without  event.  The  days  flew  by,  each 
like  the  one  before.  But  on  every  one  of  these  days  Riabo 
vich  felt,  thought,  and  acted  as  a  man  in  love.  When  at 
daybreak  his  servant  brought  him  cold  water,  and  poured 
it  over  his  head,  it  flashed  at  once  into  his  half-awakened 


THE  KISS  i<*  r 

brain  that  something  good  and  warm  and  caressing  had 
crept  into  his  life. 

At  night  when  his  comrades  talked  of  love  and  of  women, 
he  drew  in  his  chair,  and  his  face  was  the  face  of  an  old 
soldier  who  talks  of  battles  in  which  he  has  taken  part. 
And  when  the  rowdy  officers,  led  by  setter  Lobytko,  made 
Don  Juanesque  raids  upon  the  neighbouring  "suburb,"  Ria- 
bovich,  though  he  accompanied  them,  was  morose  and  con 
science-struck,  and  mentally  asked  her  forgiveness,  In  free 
hours  and  sleepless  nights,  when  his  brain  was  obsessed  by 
memories  of  childhood,  of  his  father,  his  mother,  of  every 
thing  akin  and  dear,  he  remembered  always  Miestechky,  the 
dancing  horse,  von  Rabbek,  von  Rabbek's  wife,  so  like  the 
ex-Empress  Eugenie,  the  dark  room,  the  chink  in  the 
door. 

On  the  thirty-first  of  August  he  left  camp,  this  time  not 
with  the  whole  brigade  but  with  only  two  batteries.  As  an 
exile  returning  to  his  native  land,  he  was  agitated  and  en 
thralled  by  day-dreams.  He  longed  passionately  for  the 
queer-looking  horse,  the  church,  the  insincere  von  Rabbeks, 
the  dark  room;  and  that  internal  voice  which  cheats  so 
often  the  love-lorn  whispered  an  assurance  that  he  should 
see  her  again.  But  doubt  tortured  him.  How  should  he 
meet  her?  What  must  he  say?  Would  she  have  forgotten 
the  kiss?  If  it  came  to  the  worst — he  consoled  himself — 
if  he  never  saw  her  again,  he  might  walk  once  more  through 
the  dark  room,  and  remember.  .  .  . 

Towards  evening  the  white  barns  and  well-known  church 
rose  on  the  horizon.  Riabovich's  heart  beat  wildly.  He 
ignored  the  remark  of  an  officer  who  rode  by,  he  forgot  the 
whole  world,  and  he  gazed  greedily  at  the  river  glimmering 
afar,  at  the  green  roofs,  at  the  dove-cote,  over  which  flut 
tered  birds,  dyed  golden  by  the  setting  sun. 

As  he  rode  towards  the  church,  and  heard  again  the  quar 
termaster's  raucous  voice,  he  expected  every  second  a  horse- 
mar  to  appear  from  behind  the  fence  and  invite  the  officers 
*o  tea.  .  .  But  the  quartermaster  ended  his  harangue,  the 


jo8  ROTHSCHILD'S  FIDDLE 

officers  hastened  to  the  village,  and  no  horseman  appeared. 

"When  Rabbek  hears  from  the  peasants  that  we  are  back 
he  will  send  for  us,"  thought  Riabovich.  And  so  assured 
was  he  of  this,  that  when  he  entered  the  hut  he  failed  to 
understand  why  his  comrades  had  lighted  a  candle,  and 
why  the  servants  were  preparing  the  samovar. 

A  painful  agitation  oppressed  him.  He  lay  on  his  bed. 
A  moment  later  he  rose  to  look  for  the  horseman.  But  no 
horseman  was  in  sight.  Again  he  lay  down;  again  he  rose; 
and  this  time,  impelled  by  restlessness,  went  into  the  street, 
and  walked  towards  the  church.  The  square  was  dark  and 
deserted.  On  the  hill  stood  three  silent  soldiers.  When 
they  saw  Riabovich  they  started  and  saluted,  and  he,  re 
turning  their  salute,  began  to  descend  the  well-remembered 
path. 

Beyond  the  stream,  in  a  sky  stained  with  purple,  the  moon 
slowly  rose.  Two  chattering  peasant  women  walked  in  a 
kitchen  garden  and  pulled  cabbage  leaves;  behind  them  their 
log  cabins  stood  out  black  against  the  sky.  The  river  bank 
was  as  it  had  been  in  May;  the  bushes  were  the  same; 
things  differed  only  in  that  the  nightingale  no  longer  sang, 
that  it  smelt  no  longer  of  poplars  and  young  grass. 

When  he  reached  von  Rabbek's  garden  Riabovich  peered 
through  the  wicket-gate.  Silence  and  darkness  reigned. 
Save  only  the  white  birch  trunks  and  patches  of  pathway,  the 
whole  garden  merged  in  a  black,  impenetrable  shade.  Ria 
bovich  listened  greedily,  and  gazed  intent.  For  a  quarter 
of  an  hour  he  loitered;  then  hearing  no  sound,  and  seeing 
no  light,  he  walked  wearily  towards  home. 

He  went  down  to  the  river.  In  front  rose  the  general's 
bathing  box ;  and  white  towels  hung  on  the  rail  of  the  bridge. 
He  climbed  on  to  the  bridge  and  stood  still;  then,  for  no 
reason  whatever,  touched  a  towel.  It  was  clammy  and  cold. 
He  looked  down  at  the  river  which  sped  past  swiftly, 
murmuring  almost  inaudibly  against  the  bathing-box  piles. 
Near  the  left  bank  glowed  the  moon's  ruddy  reflection,  over 
run  by  ripples  which  stretched  it,  tore  it  in  two,  and.  it 


THE  KISS  109 

seemed,  would  sweep  it  away  as  twigs  and  shavings  arc 
swept. 

"How  stupid!  How  stupid!"  thought  Riabovich,  watch 
ing  the  hurrying  ripples.  "How  stupid  everything  is!" 

Now  that  hope  was  dead,  the  history  of  the  kiss,  his  im 
patience,  his  ardour,  his  vague  aspirations  and  disillusion 
appeared  in  a  clear  light.  It  no  longer  seemed  strange  that 
the  general's  horseman  had  not  come,  and  that  he  would 
never  again  see  her  who  had  kissed  him  by  accident  instead 
of  another.  On  the  contrary,  he  felt,  it  would  be  strange 
if  he  did  ever  see  her  again.  .  .  . 

The  water  flew  past  him,  whither  and  why  no  one  knew. 
It  had  flown  past  in  May;  it  had  sped  a  stream  into  a  great 
river;  a  river,  into  the  sea;  it  had  floated  on  high  in  mist 
and  fallen  again  in  rain;  it  might  be,  the  water  of  May 
was  again  speeding  past  under  Riabovich 's  eyes.  For  what 
purpose?  Why? 

And  the  whole  world — life  itself  seemed  to  Riabovich  an 
inscrutable,  aimless  mystification.  .  .  .  Raising  his  eyes  from 
the  stream  and  gazing  at  the  sky,  he  recalled  how  Fate  in 
the  shape  of  an  unknown  woman  had  once  caressed  him; 
he  recalled  his  summer  fantasies  and  images — and  his  whole 
life  seemed  to  him  unnaturally  thin  and  colourless  and 
wretched.  .  .  . 

When  he  reached  the  cabin  his  comrades  had  disappeared. 
His  servant  informed  him  that  all  had  set  out  to  visit  "Gen 
eral  Fonrabbkin,"  who  had  sent  a  horseman  to  bring  them. 
.  .  .  For  a  moment  Riabovich 's  heart  thrilled  with  joy. 
But  that  joy  he  extinguished.  He  cast  himself  upon  his 
bed,  and  wroth  with  his  evil  fate,  as  if  he  wished  to  spite  it, 
ignored  the  invitation. 


A  GENTLEMAN  FRIEND 


WHEN  she  came  out  of  the  hospital   the  charming 
Vanda,  or,  according  to  her  passport,  "the  honourable 
lady-citizen  Nastasya  Kanavkina,"  found  herself  in  a  posi 
tion  in  which  she  had  never  been  before:  without  a  roof 
and  without  a  sou.     What  was  to  be  done? 

First  of  all,  she  went  to  a  pawnshop  to  pledge  her  tur 
quoise  ring,  her  only  jewellery.  They  gave  her  a  ruble  for 
the  ring  .  .  .  but  what  can  you  buy  for  a  ruble?  For  that 
you  can't  get  a  short  jacket  a  la  mode,  or  an  elaborate 
hat,  or  a  pair  of  brown  shoes;  yet  without  these  things  she 
felt  naked.  She  felt  as  though,  not  only  the  people,  but 
even  the  horses  and  dogs  were  staring  at  her  and  laughing 
at  the  plainness  of  her  clothes.  And  her  only  thought  was 
for  her  clothes;  she  did  not  care  at  all  what  she  ate  or 
where  she  slept. 

"If  only  I  were  to  meet  a  gentleman  friend  ..."  she 
thought.  "I  could  get  some  money  .  .  .  Nobody  would 
say  'No,'  because  ..." 

But  she  came  across  no  gentleman  friends.  It's  easy  to 
find  them  of  nights  in  the  Renaissance,  but  they  wouldn't 
let  her  go  into  the  Renaissance  in  that  plain  dress  and  with 
out  a  hat.  What's  to  be  done?  After  a  long  time  of  an 
guish,  vexed  and  weary  with  walking,  sitting,  and  thinking, 
Vanda  made  up  her  mind  to  play  her  last  card:  to  go 
straight  to  the  rooms  of  some  gentleman  friend  and  ask 
him  for  money. 

no 


A  GENTLEMAN  FRIEND  in 

"But  who  shall  I  go  to?"  she  pondered.  "I  can't  pos 
sibly  go  to  Misha  .  .  .  he's  got  a  family  .  .  .  The  ginger- 
headed  old  man  is  at  his  office  ..." 

Vanda  recollected  Finkel,  the  dentist,  the  converted  Jew 
who  gave  her  a  bracelet  three  months  ago.  Once  she  had 
poured  a  glass  of  beer  on  his  head  at  the  German  club. 
She  was  awfully  glad  that  she  had  thought  of  Finkel. 

"He'll  be  certain  to  give  me  some,  if  only  I  find  him 
in  .  .  ."  she  thought,  on  her  way  to  him.  "And  if  he 
won't,  then  I'll  break  every  single  thing  there." 

She  had  her  plan  already  prepared.  She  approached  the 
dentist's  door.  She  would  run  up  the  stairs,  with  a  laugh, 
fly  into  his  private  room  and  ask  for  twenty-five  rubles  .  .  , 
But  when  she  took  hold  of  the  bell-pull,  the  plan  went  clean 
out  of  her  head.  Vanda  suddenly  began  to  be  afraid  and 
agitated,  a  thing  which  had  never  happened  to  her  before. 
She  was  never  anything  but  bold  and  independent  ir 
drunken  company;  but  now,  dressed  in  common  clothes, 
and  just  like  any  ordinary  person  begging  a  favour,  she 
felt  timid  and  humble. 

"Perhaps  he  has  forgotten  me  .  .  ."  she  thought,  not 
daring  to  pull  the  bell.  "And  how  can  I  go  up  to  him  in  a 
dress  like  this?  As  if  I  were  a  pauper,  or  a  dowdy  re 
spectable  .  .  ." 

She  rang  the  bell  irresolutely. 

There  were  steps  behind  the  door.     It  was  the  porter. 

"Is  the  doctor  at  home?"  she  asked. 

She  would  have  been  very  pleased  now  if  the  porter  had 
said  "No,"  but  instead  of  answering  he  showed  her  into  the 
hall,  and  took  her  jacket.  The  stairs  seemed  to  her  luxu 
rious  and  magnificent,  but  what  she  noticed  first  of  all  in 
all  the  luxury  was  a  large  mirror  in  which  she  saw  a  ragged 
creature  without  an  elaborate  hat,  without  a  modish  jacket, 
and  without  a  pair  of  brown  shoes.  And  Vanda  found  it 
strange  that,  now  that  she  was  poorly  dressed  and  looking 
more  like  a  seamstress  or  a  washerwoman,  for  the  first  time 
she  felt  ashamed,  and  had  no  more  assurance  or  boldness 


ii2  ROTHSCHILD'S  FIDDLE 

left.  In  her  thoughts  she  began  to  call  herself  Nastya 
Kanavkina,  instead  of  Vanda  as  she  used. 

"This  way,  please!"  said  the  maid-servant,  leading  her 
to  the  private  room.  "The  doctor  will  be  here  immediately 
.  .  .  Please,  take  a  seat." 

Vanda  dropped  into  an  easy  chair. 

"Ill  say:  'Lend  me  .  .  .'  "  she  thought.  "That's  the 
right  thing,  because  we  are  acquainted.  But  the  maid  must 
go  out  of  the  room  .  .  .  It's  awkward  in  front  of  the  maid 
.  .  .  What  is  she  standing  there  for?" 

In  five  minutes  the  door  opened  and  Finkel  entered — a 
tall,  swarthy,  convert  Jew,  with  fat  cheeks  and  goggle-eyes. 
His  cheeks,  eyes,  belly,  fleshy  hips — were  all  so  full,  re 
pulsive,  and  coarse!  At  the  Renaissance  and  the  German 
club  he  used  always  to  be  a  little  drunk,  to  spend  a  lot  of 
money  on  women,  patiently  put  up  with  all  their  tricks — 
for  instance,  when  Vanda  poured  the  beer  on  his  head,  he 
only  smiled  and  shook  his  finger  at  her — but  now  he  looked 
dull  and  sleepy;  he  had  the  pompous,  chilly  expression  of 
a  superior,  and  he  was  chewing  something. 

"What  is  the  matter?"  he  asked,  without  looking  at 
Vanda.  Vanda  glanced  at  the  maid's  serious  face,  at  the 
blown-out  figure  of  Finkel,  who  obviously  did  not  recog 
nise  her,  and  she  blushed. 

"What's  the  matter?"  the  dentist  repeated,  irritated. 

"To  .  .  .  oth  ache  ..."  whispered  Vanda. 

"Ah  .  .  .  which  tooth  .  .  .  where?" 

Vanda  remembered  she  had  a  tooth  with  a  hole. 

"At  the  bottom  ...  to  the  right,"  she  said. 

"H'm  .  .  .  open  your  mouth." 

Finkel  frowned,  held  his  breath,  and  began  to  work  the 
aching  tooth  loose. 

"Do  you  feel  any  pain?"  he  asked,  picking  at  her  tooth 
with  some  instrument. 

"Yes,  I  do  .  .  ."  Vanda  lied.  "Shall  I  remind  him?" 
she  thought,  "he'll  be  sure  to  remember  .  .  .  But  .  .  .  the 
tnaid  .  .  .  what  is  she  standing  there  for?" 


A  GEJNTju&iviAN   FRIEND  113 

Finkel  suddenly  snorted  like  a  steam-engine,  straight  into 
her  mouth,  and  said: 

"I  don't  advise  you  to  have  filling  put  in.  The  tooth  is 
quite  useless." 

Again  he  picked  at  the  tooth  for  a  little,  and  soiled  Vanda's 
lips  and  gums  with  his  tobacco-stained  fingers.  Again  he 
held  his  breath  and  dived  into  her  mouth  with  something 
cold  .  .  . 

Vanda  suddenly  felt  a  terrible  pain,  shrieked  and  seized 
Finkel's  hand  .  .  . 

"Never  mind  .  .  ."  he  murmured.  "Don't  be  fright 
ened  .  .  .  This  tooth  isn't  any  use." 

And  his  tobacco-stained  fingers,  covered  with  blood,  held 
up  the  extracted  tooth  before  her  eyes.  The  maid  came 
forward  and  put  a  bowl  to  her  lips. 

"Rinse  your  mouth  with  cold  water  at  home,"  said  Fin 
kel.  "That  will  make  the  blood  stop." 

He  stood  before  her  in  the  attitude  of  a  man  impatient 
to  be  left  alone  at  last. 

"Good-bye  ..."  she  said,  turning  to  the  door. 

"H'm!  And  who's  to  pay  me  for  the  work?"  Finkel 
asked  laughingly. 

"Ah  .  .  .  yes!"  Vanda  recollected,  blushed  and  gave 
the  dentist  the  ruble  she  had  got  for  the  turquoise  ring. 

When  she  came  into  the  street  she  felt  still  more  ashamed 
than  before,  but  she  was  not  ashamed  of  her  poverty  any 
more.  Nor  did  she  notice  any  more  that  she  hadn't  an 
elaborate  hat  or  a  modish  jacket.  She  walked  along  the 
street  spitting  blood  and  each  red  spittle  told  her  about  her 
life,  a  bad,  hard  life;  about  the  insults  she  had  suffered 
and  had  still  to  suffer — to-morrow,  a  week,  a  year  hence — 
her  whole  life,  till  death  .  .  . 

"Oh,  how  terrible  it  is!"  she  whispered.  "My  God, 
how  terrible!" 

But  the  next  day  she  was  at  the  Renaissance  and  she 
danced  there.  She  wore  a  new,  immense  red  hat,  a  new 
jacket  a  la  mode  and  a  pair  of  brown  shoes.  She  was 
treated  to  sunoer  bv  a  voimer  merchant  from  Kazan. 


A  TRIFLING  OCCURRENCE 


NIKOLAY  ILYICH  BIELIAYEV,  a  Petersburg  land 
lord,  very  fond  of  the  racecourse,  a  well  fed,  pink 
young  man  of  about  thirty-two,  once  called  towards  evening 
on  Madame  Irnin — Olga  Ivanovna — with  whom  he  had  a 
liaison,  or,  to  use  his  own  phrase,  spun  out  a  long  and  tedi 
ous  romance.  And  indeed  the  first  pages  of  his  romance, 
pages  of  interest  and  inspiration,  had  been  read  long  ago; 
now  they  dragged  on  and  on,  and  presented  neither  novelty 
nor  interest. 

Finding  that  Olga  Ivanovna  was  not  at  home,  my  hero 
lay  down  a  moment  on  the  drawing-room  sofa  and  began 
to  wait. 

"Good  evening  Nikolay  Ilyich,"  he  suddenly  heard  a  child's 
voice  say.  "Mother  will  be  in  in  a  moment.  She's  gone 
to  the  dressmaker's  with  Sonya." 

In  the  same  drawing-room  on  the  sofa  lay  Olga  Ivanovna's 
son,  Aliosha,  a  boy  about  eight  years  old,  well  built,  well 
looked  after,  dressed  up  like  a  picture  in  a  velvet  jacket  and 
long  black  stockings.  He  lay  on  a  satin  pillow,  and  appa 
rently  imitating  an  acrobat  whom  he  had  lately  seen  in  the 
circus,  lifting  up  first  one  leg,  then  the  other.  When  his 
elegant  legs  began  to  be  tired,  he  moved  his  hands,  or  he 
jumped  up  impetuously  and  then  went  on  all  fours,  trying 
to  stand  with  his  legs  in  the  air.  All  this  he  did  with  a 
most  serious  face,  breathing  heavily,  as  if  he  himself  found 
no  happiness  in  God's  gift  of  such  a  restless  body. 

"Ah,  how  do  you  do,  my  friend?"  said  Bieliayev.  "Is  it 
you?  I  didn't  notice  you.  Is  your  mother  well?" 

114 


A  TRIFLING  OCCURRENCE  115 

At  the  moment  Aliosha  had  just  taken  hold  of  the  toe  of 
his  left  foot  in  his  right  hand  and  got  into  a  most  awkward 
pose.  He  turned  head  over  heels,  jumped  up,  and  glanced 
from  under  the  big,  fluffy  lampshade  at  Bieliayev. 

"How  can  I  put  it?"  he  said,  shrugging  his  shoulders. 
"As  a  matter  of  plain  fact  mother  is  never  well.  You  see 
she's  a  woman,  and  women,  Nikolay  Ilyich,  have  always 
some  pain  or  another." 

For  something  to  do,  Bieliayev  began  to  examine  Aliosha's 
face.  All  the  time  he  had  been  acquainted  with  Olga  Ivan- 
ovna  he  had  never  once  turned  his  attention  to  the  boy  and 
had  completely  ignored  his  existence.  A  boy  is  stuck  in  front 
of  your  e3^es,  but  what  is  he  doing  here,  what  is  his  role? — 
you.  don't  want  to  give  a  single  thought  to  the  question. 

In  the  evening  dusk  Aliosha's  face  with  a  pale  forehead 
and  steady  black  eyes  unexpectedly  reminded  Bieliayev  of 
Olga  Ivanovna  as  she  was  in  the  first  pages  of  the  romance. 
He  had  the  desire  to  be  affectionate  to  the  boy. 

"Come  here,  whipper-snapper,"  he  said.  "Come  and  let 
me  have  a  good  look  at  you,  quite  close." 

The  boy  jumped  off  the  sofa  and  ran  to  Bieliayev. 

"Well?"  Nikolay  Ilyich  began,  putting  his  hand  on  the 
thin  shoulders.  "And  how  are  things  with  you?" 

"How  shall  I  put  it?  ...  They  used  to  be  much  better 
before." 

"How?" 

"Quite  simple.  Before,  Sonya  and  I  only  had  to  do 
music  and  reading,  and  now  we're  given  French  verses  to 
learn.  You've  had  your  hair  cut  lately?" 

"Yes,  just  lately." 

"That's  why  I  noticed  it.  Your  beard's  shorter.  May 
I  touch  it  ...  Doesn't  it  hurt?" 

"No,  not  a  bit." 

"Why  is  it  that  it  hurts  if  you  pull  one  hair,  and  when 
you  pull  a  whole  lot,  it  does'nt  hurt  a  bit?  Ah,  ah!  You 
know  it's  a  pity  you  don't  have  side-whiskers.  You  should 
shave  here,  and  at  the  sides  .  .  .  and  leave  the  hair  just  here." 


n6  ROTHSCHILD'S  FIDDLE 

The  boy  pressed  close  to  Bieliayev  and  began  to  play 
with  his  watch-chain. 

"When  I  go  to  the  gymnasium,"  he  said,  "Mother  is 
going  to  buy  me  a  watch.  I'll  ask  her  to  buy  me  a  chain 
just  like  this.  What  a  fine  locket!  Father  has  one  just 
the  same,  but  yours  has  stripes,  here,  and  his  has  got 
letters  .  .  .  Inside  it's  mother's  picture.  Father  has  another 
chain  now,  not  in  links,  but  like  a  ribbon  ..." 

"How  do  you  know?     Do  you  see  your  father?" 

"I?     Mm  ...  no  ...  I  ..." 

Aliosha  blushed  and  in  the  violent  confusion  of  being  de 
tected  in  a  lie  began  to  scratch  the  locket  busily  with  his 
finger-nail.  Bieliayev  looked  steadily  at  his  face  and  asked: 

"Do  you  see  your  father?" 

"No  .  .  .  no!" 

"But,  be  honest — on  your  honour.  By  your  face  I  can 
see  you're  not  telling  me  the  truth.  If  you  made  a  slip  of 
the  tongue  by  mistake,  what's  the  use  of  shuffling.  Tell  me, 
do  you  see  him?  As  one  friend  to  another." 

Aliosha  mused. 

"And  you  won't  tell  Mother?"  he  asked. 

"What  next." 

"On  your  word  of  honour." 

"My  word  of  honour." 

"Swear  an  oath." 

"What  a  nuisance  you  are!     What  do  you  take  me  for?" 

Aliosha  looked  round,  made  big  eyes  and  began  to  whisper. 

"Only  for  God's  sake  don't  tell  Mother!  Never  tell  it 
to  anyone  at  all,  because  it's  a  secret.  God  forbid  that 
Mother  should  ever  get  to  know;  then  I  and  Sonya  and 
Pelagueya  will  pay  for  it  ...  Listen.  Sonya  and  I  meet 
Father  every  Tuesday  and  Friday.  When  Pelagueya  takes 
us  for  a  walk  before  dinner,  we  go  into  Apfel's  sweet-shop 
and  Father's  waiting  for  us.  He  always  sits  in  a  separate 
room,  you  know,  where  there's  a  splendid  marble  table  and 
an  ash-tray  shaped  like  a  goose  without  a  back  .  .  ." 

"And  what  do  you  do  there?" 


A  TRIFLING  OCCURRENCE  117 

"Nothing! — First,  we  welcome  one  another,  then  we  sit 
down  at  a  little  table  and  Father  begins  to  treat  us  to 
coffee  and  cakes.  You  know,  Sonya  eats  meat-pies,  and  I 
can't  bear  pies  with  meat  in  them!  I  like  them  made  of 
cabbage  and  eggs.  We  eat  so  much  that  afterwards  at 
dinner  we  try  to  eat  as  much  as  we  possibly  can  so  that 
Mother  shan't  notice." 

"What  do  you  talk  about  there?" 

"To  Father?  About  anything.  He  kisses  us  and  cud 
dles  us,  tells  us  all  kinds  of  funny  stories.  You  know,  he 
says  that  he  will  take  us  to  live  with  him  when  we  are 
grown  up.  Sonya  doesn't  want  to  go,  but  I  say  'Yes.'  Of 
course,  it'll  be  lonely  without  Mother;  but  I'll  write  letters 
to  her.  How  funny:  we  could  go  to  her  for  our  holidays 
then — couldn't  we?  Besides,  Father  says  that  he'll  buy 
me  a  horse.  He's  a  splendid  man.  I  can't  understand  why 
Mother  doesn't  invite  him  to  live  with  her  or  why  she  says 
we  mustn't  meet  him.  He  loves  Mother  very  much  indeed. 
He's  always  asking  us  how  she  is  and  what  she's  doing. 
When  she  was  ill,  he  took  hold  of  his  head  like  this  .  .  . 
and  ran,  ran,  all  the  time.  He  is  always  telling  us  to  obey 
and  respect  her.  Tell  me,  is  it  true  that  we're  unlucky?" 

"H'm  .  .  .  how?" 

"Father  says  so.  He  says:  'You  are  unlucky  children.' 
It's  quite  strange  to  listen  to  him.  He  says:  'You  are 
unhappy,  I'm  unhappy,  and  Mother's  unhappy.'  He  says: 
'Pray  to  God  for  yourselves  and  for  her.'  " 

Aliosha's  eyes  rested  upon  the  stuffed  bird  and  he  mused. 

"Exactly  .  .  ."  snorted  Bieliayev.  "This  is  what  you 
do.  You  arrange  conferences  in  sweet-shops.  And  your 
mother  doesn't  know?" 

"N — no  .  .  .  How  could  she  know?  Pelagueya  won't  tell 
for  anything.  The  day  before  yesterday  Father  stood  us 
pears.  Sweet,  like  jam.  I  had  two." 

"H'm  .  .  .  well,  now  .  .  .  tell  me,  doesn't  your  father 
speak  about  me?" 

"About  you?     How  shall  I  put  it?" 


n8  ROTHSCHILD'S  FIDDLE 

Aliosha  gave  a  searching  glance  to  Bieliayev's  face  and 
shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"He  doesn't  say  anything  in  particular." 

"What  does  he  say,  for  instance?" 

"You  won't  be  offended?" 

"What  next?     Why,  does  he  abuse  me?" 

"He  doesn't  abuse  you,  but  you  know  ...  he  is  cross 
with  you.  He  says  that  it's  through  you  that  Mother's 
unhappy  and  that  you  .  .  .  ruined  Mother.  But  he  is  so 
queer!  I  explain  to  him  that  you  are  good  and  never  shout 
at  Mother,  but  he  only  shakes  his  head." 

"Does  he  say  those  very  words:  that  I  ruined  her?" 

"Yes.     Don't  be  offended,  Nikolay  Ilyich!" 

Bieliayev  got  up,  stood  still  a  moment,  and  then  began 
to  walk  about  the  drawing-room. 

"This  is  strange,  and  .  .  .  funny,"  he  murmured,  shrug 
ging  his  shoulders  and  smiling  ironically.  "He  is  to  blame 
all  round,  and  now  I've  ruined  her,  eh?  What  an  innocent 
lamb!  Did  he  say  those  very  words  to  you:  that  I  ruined 
your  mother?" 

"Yes,  but  .  .  .  you  said  that  you  wouldn't  get  offended." 

"I'm  not  offended,  and  .  .  .  arid  it's  none  of  your  busi 
ness!  No,  it  ...  it's  quite  funny  though.  I  fell  into  the 
trap,  yet  I'm  to  be  blamed  as  well." 

The  bell  rang.  The  boy  dashed  from  his  place  and  ran 
out.  In  a  minute  a  lady  entered  the  room  with  a  little  girl. 
It  was  Olga  Ivanovna,  Aliosha's  mother.  After  her,  hop 
ping,  humming  noisily,  and  waving  his  hands,  followed 
Aliosha. 

"Of  course,  who  is  there  to  accuse  except  me?"  he  mur 
mured,  sniffing.  "He's  right,  he's  the  injured  husband." 

"What's  the  matter?"  asked  Olga  Ivanovna. 

"What's  the  matter!  Listen  to  the  kind  of  sermon  your 
dear  husband  preaches.  It  appears  I'm  a  scoundrel  and 
a  murderer,  I've  ruined  you  and  the  children.  All  of  you 
are  unhappy,  and  only  I  am  awfully  happy!  Awfully,  aw 
fully  happy!" 


A  TRIFLING  OCCURRENCE  119 

"I  don't  understand,  Nikolay!     What  is  it?" 

"Just  listen  to  this  young  gentleman,"  Bieliayev  said, 
pointing  to  Aliosha. 

Aliosha  blushed,  then  became  pale  suddenly,  and  his  whole 
face  was  twisted  in  fright. 

"Nikolay  Ilyich,"  he  whispered  loudly.     "Shh!" 

"Ask  him,  if  you  please,"  went  Bieliayev.  "That  stupid 
fool  Pelagueya  of  yours,  takes  them  to  sweet-shops  and  ar 
ranges  meetings  with  their  dear  father  there.  But  that's 
not  the  point.  The  point  is  that  the  dear  father  is  a  martyr, 
and  I'm  a  murderer,  I'm  a  scoundrel,  who  broke  the  lives 
of  both  cf  you.  .  .  ." 

"Nikolay  Ilyich! "  moaned  Aliosha.  "You  gave  your  word 
of  honour!" 

"Ah,  let  me  alone!"  Bieliayev  waved  his  hand.  "This  is 
something  more  important  than  any  words  of  honour.  The 
hypocrisy  revolts  me,  the  lie!" 

"I  don't  understand,"  muttered  Olga  Ivanovna,  and  tears 
began  to  glimmer  in  her  eyes.  "Tell  me,  Liolka," — she 
turned  to  her  son,  "Do  you  see  your  father?" 

Aliosha  di-d  not  hear  and  looked  with  horror  at  Bieliayev. 

"It's  impossible,"  said  the  mother.  "I'll  go  and  ask  Pe 
lagueya." 

Olga  Ivanovna  went  out. 

"But,  but  you  gave  me  your  word  of  honour,"  Aliosha  said, 
trembling  all  over. 

Bieliayev  waved  his  hand  at  him  and  went  on  walking 
up  and  down.  He  was  absorbed  in  his  insult,  and  now,  as 
before,  he  did  not  notice  the  presence  of  the  boy.  He,  a 
big  serious  man,  had  nothing  to  do  with  boys.  And  Aliosha 
sat  down  in  a  corner  and  in  terror  told  Sonya  how  he  had 
been  deceived.  He  trembled,  stammered,  wept.  This  was 
the  first  time  in  his  life  that  he  had  been  set,  roughly,  face 
to  face  with  a  lie.  He  had  never  known  before  that  in  this 
world  besides  sweet  pears  and  cakes  and  expensive  watches, 
there  exist  many  other  things  which  have  no  name  in  chil 
dren's  language. 


AFTER  THE  THEATRE 


NADYA  ZELENINA  had  just  returned  with  her  mother 
from  the  theatre,  where  they  had  been  to  see  a  per 
formance  of  "Yevgeny  Oniegin."  Entering  her  room,  she 
qrickly  threw  off  her  dress,  loosened  her  hair,  and  sat  down 
hurriedly  in  her  petticoat  and  a  white  blouse  to  write  a 
letter  in  the  style  of  Tatyana. 

"I  love  you," — she  wrote — "but  you  don't  love  me;  no, 
you  don't!" 

The  moment  she  had  written  this,  she  smiled. 

She  was  only  sixteen  years  old,  and  so  far  she  had  not 
been  in  love.  She  knew  that  Gorny,  the  officer,  and 
Gronsdev,  the  student,  loved  her ;  but  now,  after  the  theatre, 
she  wanted  to  doubt  their  love.  To  be  unloved  and  unhappy 
— how  interesting.  There  is  something  beautiful,  affecting, 
romantic  in  the  fact  that  one  loves  deeply  while  the  other 
is  indifferent.  Oniegin  is  interesting  because  he  does  not 
love  at  all,  and  Tatyana  is  delightful  because  she  is  very 
much  in  love;  but  if  they  loved  each  other  equally  and  were 
happy,  they  would  seem  boring,  instead. 

"Don't  go  on  protesting  that  you  love  me,"  Nadya  wrote 
on,  thinking  of  Gorny,  the  officer,  "I  can't  believe  you. 
You're  very  clever,  educated,  serious;  }/ou  have  a  great 
talent,  and  perhaps,  a  splendid  future  waiting,  but  I  am  an 
uninteresting  poor-spirited  girl,  and  you  yourself  know  quite 
well  that  I  shall  only  be  a  drag  upon  your  life.  It's  true  I 
carried  you  off  your  feet,  and  you  thought  you  had  met  your 
ideal  in  me,  but  that  was  a  mistake.  Already  you  ar 

1 20 


AFTER  THE  THEATRE  121 

asking  yourself  in  despair,  'Why  did  I  meet  this  girl?'  Only 
your  kindness  prevents  you  from  confessing  it." 

Nadya  pitied  herself.     She  wept  and  went  on. 

"If  it  were  not  so  difficult  for  me  to  leave  mother  and 
brother  I  would  put  on  a  nun's  gown  and  go  where  my  eyes 
direct  me.  You  would  then  be  free  to  love  another.  If  I 
were  to  die!" 

Through  her  tears  she  could  not  make  out  what  she  had 
written.  Brief  rainbows  trembled  on  the  table,  on  the 
floor  and  the  ceiling,  as  though  Nadya  were  looking  through 
a  prism.  Impossible  to  write.  She  sank  back  in  her  chair 
and  began  to  think  of  Gorny. 

Oh,  how  fascinating,  how  interesting  men  are!  Nadya 
remembered  the  beautiful  expression  of  Gorny's  face,  ap 
pealing,  guilty,  and  tender,  when  someone  discussed  music 
with  him, — the  efforts  he  made  to  prevent  the  passion  from 
sounding  in  his  voice.  Passion  must  be  concealed  in  a  so 
ciety  where  cold  reserve  and  indifference  are  the  signs  of 
good  breeding.  And  he  does  try  to  conceal  it,  but  he  does 
not  succeed,  and  everybody  knows  quite  well  that  he  has 
a  passion  for  muaic.  Never-ending  discussions  about  music, 
blundering  pronouncements  by  men  who  do  not  understand 
— keep  him  in  incessant  tension.  He  is  scared,  timid,  silent. 
He  plays  superbly,  as  an  ardent  pianist.  If  he  were  not  an 
officer,  he  would  be  a  famous  musician. 

The  tears  dried  in  her  eyes.  Nadya  remembered  how 
Gorny  told  her  of  his  love  at  a  symphony  concert,  and  again 
downstairs  by  the  cloak-room. 

"I  am  so  glad  you  have  at  last  made  the  acquaintance  of 
the  student  Gronsdev,"  she  continued  to  write.  "He  is  a 
very  clever  man,  and  you  are  sure  to  love  him.  Yesterday 
he  was  sitting  with  us  till  two  o'clock  in  the  morning.  We 
were  all  so  happy.  I  was  sorry  that  you  hadn't  come  to 
us.  He  said  a  lot  of  remarkable  things." 

Nadya  laid  her  hands  on  the  table  and  lowered  her  head. 
Her  hair  covered  the  letter.  She  remembered  that  Gronsdev 
also  loved  her,  and  that  he  had  the  same  right  to  her 


122  ROTHSCHILD'S  FIDDLE 

letter  as  Gorny.  Perhaps  she  had  better  write  to  Gronsdev? 
For  no  cause,  a  happiness  began  to  quicken  in  her  breast.  At 
first  it  was  a  little  one,  rolling  about  in  her  breast  like  a 
rubber  ball.  Then  it  grew  broader  and  bigger,  and  broke 
forth  like  a  wave.  Nadya  had  already  forgotten  about 
Gorny  and  Gronsdev.  Her  thoughts  became  confused.  The 
happiness  grew  more  and  more.  From  her  breast  it  ran 
into  her  arms  and  legs,  and  it  seemed  that  a  light  fresh 
breeze  blew  over  her  head,  stirring  her  hair.  Her  shoulders 
trembled  with  quiet  laughter.  The  table  and  the  lampglass 
trembled.  Tears  from  her  eyes  splashed  the  letter.  She 
was  powerless  to  stop  her  laughter;  and  to  convince  herself 
that  she  had  a  reason  for  it,  she  hastened  to  remember  some 
thing  funny. 

"What  a  funny  poodle!"  she  cried,  feeling  that  she  was 
choking  with  laughter.  "What  a  funny  poodle!" 

She  remembered  how  Gronsdev  was  playing  with  Maksim 
the  poodle  after  tea  yesterday;  how  he  told  a  story  after 
wards  of  a  very  clever  poodle  who  was  chasing  a  crow  in 
the  yard.  The  crow  gave  him  a  look  and  said: 

"Oh,  you  swindler!" 

The  poodle  did  not  know  he  had  to  do  with  a  learned 
crow.  He  was  terribly  confused,  and  ran  away  dumfound- 
ed.  Afterwards  he  began  to  bark. 

"No,  I'd  better  love  Gronsdev,"  Nadya  decided,  and  tore 
up  the  letter. 

She  began  to  think  of  the  student,  of  his  love,  of  her  own 
love,  with  the  result  that  the  thoughts  in  her  head  swam 
apart  and  she  thought  about  everything,  about  her  mother, 
the  street,  the  pencil,  the  piano.  She  was  happy  thinking, 
and  found  that  everything  was  good,  magnificent.  Her  hap 
piness  told  her  that  this  was  not  all,  that  a  little  later 
it  would  be  still  better.  Soon  it  will  be  spring,  summer. 
They  will  go  with  mother  to  Gorbiky  in  the  country. 
Gorny  will  come  for  his  holidays.  He  will  walk  in  the 
orchard  with  her,  and  make  love  to  her.  Gronsdev  will 
come  too.  He  will  play  croquet  with  her  and  bowls.  He 


AFTER  THE  THEATRE  123 

will  tell  funny,  wonderful  stories.  She  passionately  longed 
for  the  orchard,  the  darkness,  the  pure  sky,  the  stars. 
Again  her  shoulders  trembled  with  laughter  and  she  seemed 
to  awake  to  a  smell  of  wormwood  in  the  room;  and  a  branch 
was  tapping  at  the  window. 

She  went  to  her  bed  and  sat  down.  She  did  not  know 
what  to  do  with  her  great  happiness.  It  overwhelmed  her. 
She  stared  at  the  crucifix  which  hung  at  the  head  of  her 
bed  and  saying: 

"Dear  God,  dear  God,  dear  God." 


OLD  AGE 


OTATE-COUNCILLOR  UZELKOV,  architect,  arrived  in 
O  his  native  town,  where  he  had  been  summoned  to  restore 
the  cemetery  church.  He  was  born  in  the  town,  he  had 
grown  up  and  been  married  there,  and  yet  when  he  got  out 
of  the  train  he  hardly  recognised  it.  Everything  was 
changed.  For  instance,  eighteen  years  ago,  when  he  left  the 
town  to  settle  in  Petersburg,  where  the  railway  station  is 
now  boys  used  to  hunt  for  marmots:  now  as  you  come  into 
the  High  Street  there  is  a  four  storied  "Hotel  Vienna,"  with 
apartments,  where  there  was  of  old  an  ugly  grey  fence.  But 
not  the  fence  or  the  houses,  or  anything  had  changed  so 
much  as  the  people.  Questioning  the  hall-porter,  Uzelkov  dis 
covered  that  more  than  half  of  the  people  he  remembered 
were  dead  or  paupers  or  forgotten. 

"Do  you  remember  Uzelkov?"  he  asked  the  porter.  "Uzel 
kov,  the  architect,  who  divorced  his  wife.  ...  He  had  a 
house  in  Sviribev  Street.  .  .  .  Surely  you  remember." 

"No,  I  don't  remember  anyone  of  the  name." 

"Why,  it's  impossible  not  to  remember.  It  was  an  ex 
citing  case.  All  the  cabmen  knew,  even.  Try  to  remember. 
His  divorce  was  managed  by  the  attorney,  Shapkin,  the 
swindler  .  .  .  the  notorious  sharper,  the  man  who  was 
thrashed  at  the  club.  .  .  ." 

"You  mean  Ivan  Nikolaich?" 

"Yes.  ...  Is  he  alive?  dead?" 

"Thank  heaven,  his  honour's  alive.  His  honour's  a  notary 
now,  with  an  office.  Well-to-do.  Two  houses  in  Kirpichny 
Street.  Just  lately  married  his  daughter  off." 

Uzelkov  strode  from  one  corner  of  the  room  to  another. 

124 


OLD  AGE  125 

An  idea  flashed  into  his  mind.  From  boredom,  he  decided 
to  see  Shapkin.  It  was  afternoon  when  he  left  the  hotel  and 
quietly  walked  to  Kirpichny  Street.  He  found  Shapkin  in 
his  office  and  hardly  recognised  him.  From  the  well-built, 
alert  attorney  with  a  quick,  impudent,  perpetually  tipsy  ex 
pression,  Shapkin  had  become  a  modest,  grey-haired, 
shrunken  old  man. 

"You  don't  recognise  me  ...  You  have  forgotten  ..." 
Uzelkov  began.  "I'm  your  old  client,  Uzelkov." 

"Uzelkov?    Which  Uzelkov?    Ah!" 

Remembrance  came  to  Shapkin:  he  recognised  him  and 
was  confused.  Began  exclamations,  questions,  recollections. 

"Never  expected  .  .  .  never  thought  .  .  ."  chuckled 
Shapkin.  "What  will  you  have?  Would  you  like  cham 
pagne?  Perhaps  you'd  like  oysters.  My  dear  man,  what 
a  lot  of  money  I  got  out  of  you  in  the  old  days — so  much 
that  I  can't  think  what  I  ought  to  stand  you." 

"Please  don't  trouble,"  said  Uzelkov.  "I  haven't  time. 
I  must  go  to  the  cemetery  and  examine  the  church.  I  have 
a  commission." 

"Splendid.  We'll  have  something  to  eat  and  a  drink 
and  go  together.  I've  got  some  splendid  horses!  I'll  take 
you  there  and  introduce  you  to  the  churchwarden.  .  .  .  I'll 
fix  up  everything.  .  .  .  But  what's  the  matter,  my  dearest 
man?  You're  not  avoiding  me,  not  afraid?  Please  sit  nearer. 
There's  nothing  to  be  afraid  of  now.  .  .  .  Long  ago,  I  really 
was  pretty  sharp,  a  bit  of  a  rogue  .  .  .  but  now  I'm  quieter 
than  water,  humbler  than  grass.  I've  grown  old;  got  a  fam 
ily.  There  are  children.  .  .  .  Time  to  die!" 

The  friends  had  something  to  eat  and  drink,  and  went  in 
a  coach  and  pair  to  the  cemetery. 

"Yes,  it  was  a  good  time,"  Shapkin  was  reminiscent,  sit 
ting  in  the  sledge.  "I  remember,  but  I  simply  can't  believe 
it.  Do  you  remember  how  you  divorced  your  wife?  It's 
almost  twenty  years  ago,  and  you've  probably  forgotten 
everything,  but  I  remember  it  as  though  I  conducted  the  pe 
tition  yesterday.  My  God,  how  rotten  I  was!  Then  I  was 


126  ROTHSCHILD'S  FIDDLE 

a  smart,  casuistical  devil,  full  of  sharp  practice  and  dev 
ilry  .  .  .  and  I  used  to  run  into  some  shady  affairs,  particu 
larly  when  there  was  a  good  fee,  as  in  your  case,  for  instance. 
What  was  it  you  paid  me  then?  Five — six  hundred.  Enough 
to  upset  anybody!  By  the  time  you  left  for  Petersburg 
you'd  left  the  whole  affair  completely  in  my  hands.  'Do 
what  you  like!'  And  your  former  wife,  Sofya  Mikhailovna, 
though  she  did  come  from  a  merchant  family,  was  proud  and 
selfish.  To  bribe  her  to  take  the  guilt  on  herself  was  diffi 
cult—extremely  difficult.  I  used  to  come  to  her  for  a  busi 
ness  talk,  and  when  she  saw  me,  she  would  say  to  her  maid: 
'Masha,  surely  I  told  you  I  wasn't  at  home  to  scoundrels.' 
I  tried  one  way,  then  another  .  .  .  wrote  letters  to  her,  tried 
to  meet  her  accidentally — no  good.  I  had  to  work  through 
a  third  person.  For  a  long  time  I  had  trouble  with  her, 
and  she  only  yielded  when  you  agreed  to  give  her  ten  thou 
sand.  She  succumbed.  .  .  .  She  began  to  weep,  spat  in  my 
face,  but  she  yielded  and  took  the  guilt  on  herself." 

"If  I  remember  it  was  fifteen,  not  ten  thousand  she  took 
from  me,"  said  Uzelkov. 

"Yes,  of  course  .  .  .  fifteen,  my  mistake."  Shapkin  was 
disconcerted.  "Anyway  it's  all  past  and  done  with  now. 
Why  shouldn't  I  confess,  frankly?  Ten  I  gave  to  her,  and 
the  remaining  five  I  bargained  out  of  you  for  my  own  share. 
T  deceived  both  of  you.  .  .  .  It's  all  past,  why  be  ashamed 
of  it?  And  who  else  was  there  to  take  from,  Boris  Petrovich, 
if  not  from  you?  I  ask  you.  .  .  .  You  were  rich  and  well- 
to-do.  You  married  in  caprice:  you  were  divorced  in  caprice. 
You  were  making  a  fortune.  I  remember  you  got  twenty 
thousand  out  of  a  single  contract.  Whom  was  I  to  tap, 
if  not  you?  And  I  must  confess,  I  was  tortured  by  envy. 
If  you  got  hold  of  a  nice  lot  of  money,  people  would  take 
off  their  hats  to  you:  but  the  same  people  would  beat  me 
for  shillings  and  smack  my  face  in  the  club.  But  why 
recall  it?  It's  time  to  forget." 

"Tell  me,  please,  how  did  Sofya  Mikhailovna  live  after 
wards?" 


OLD  AGE  127 

"With  her  ten  thousand?  On  ne  peut  plus  badly.  .  .  . 
God  knows  whether  it  was  frenzy  or  pride  and  conscience 
that  tortured  her,  because  she  had  sold  herself  for  money— 
or  perhaps  she  loved  you ;  but,  she  took  to  drink,  you  know. 
She  received  the  money  and  began  to  gad  about  with  officers 
in  troikas.  .  .  .  Drunkenness,  philandering,  debauchery.  .  .  . 
She  would  come  into  a  tavern  with  an  officer,  and  instead  of 
port  or  a  light  wine,  she  would  drink  the  strongest  cognac 
to  drive  her  into  a  frenzy." 

"Yes,  she  was  eccentric.  I  suffered  enough  with  her.  She 
would  take  offence  at  some  trifle  and  then  get  nervous.  .  .  . 
And  what  happened  afterwards?" 

"A  week  passed,  a  fortnight.  ...  I  was  sitting  at  home 
writing.  Suddenly,  the  door  opened  and  she  comes  in.  'Take 
your  cursed  money/  she  said,  and  threw  the  parcel  in  my 
face.  .  .  .  She  could  not  resist  it.  ...  Five  hundred  were 
missing.  She  had  only  got  rid  of  five  hundred." 

"And  what  did  you  do  with  the  money?" 

"It's  all  past  and  done  with.  What's  the  good  of  ccn- 
cealing  it?  ...  I  certainly  took  it.  What  are  you  staring 
at  me  like  that  for?  Wait  for  the  sequel.  It's  a  complete 
novel,  the  sickness  of  a  soul!  Two  months  passed  by.  One 
night  I  came  home  drunk,  in  a  wicked  mood.  ...  I  turned 
on  the  light  and  saw  Sofya  Mikhailovna  sitting  on  my  sofa, 
drunk  too,  wandering  a  bit,  with  something  savage  in  her  face 
as  if  she  had  just  escaped  from  the  mad-house.  'Give  me 
my  money  back,'  she  said.  'I've  changed  my  mind.  If  I'm 
going  to  the  dogs,  I  want  to  go  madly,  passionately.  Make 
haste,  you  scoundrel,  give  me  the  money.'  How  indecent  it 
was!" 

"And  you  ...  did  you  give  it  her?" 

"I  remember.  ...  I  gave  her  ten  rubles." 

"Oh  ...  is  it  possible?"  Uzelkov  frowned.  "If  you 
couldn't  do  it  yourself,  or  you  didn't  want  to,  you  could  have 
written  to  me.  .  .  .  And  I  didn't  know  ...  I  didn't  know." 

"My  dear  man,  why  should  I  write,  when  she  wrote  herself 
afterwards  when  she  was  in  hospital?" 


128  ROTHSCHILD'S  FIDDLE 

"I  was  so  taken  up  with  the  new  marriage  that  I  paid  no 
attention  to  letters.  .  .  .  But  you  were  an  outsider;  you  had 
no  antagonism  to  Sofya  Mikhailovna.  .  .  .  Why  didn't  you 
help  her?" 

"We  can't  judge  by  our  present  standards,  Boris  Petrovich. 
Now  we  think  in  this  way;  but  then  we  thought  quite  dif 
ferently.  .  .  .  Now  I  might  perhaps  give  her  a  thousand 
rubles;  but  then  even  ten  rubles  .  .  .  she  didn't  get  them 
for  nothing.  It's  a  terrible  story.  It's  time  to  forget.  .  .  . 
But  here  you  are!" 

The  sledge  stopped  at  the  churchyard  gate.  Uzelkov 
and  Shapkin  got  out  of  the  sledge,  went  through  the  gate 
and  walked  along  a  long,  broad  avenue.  The  bare  cherry 
trees,  the  acacias,  the  grey  crosses  and  monuments  sparkled 
with  hoar-frost.  In  each  flake  of  snow  the  bright  sunny  day 
was  reflected.  There  was  the  smell  you  find  in  all  cemeteries 
of  incense  and  fresh-dug  earth. 

"You  have  a  beautiful  cemetery,"  said  Uzelkov.  "It's 
almost  an  orchard." 

"Yes,  but  it's  a  pity  the  thieves  steal  the  monuments. 
Look,  there,  behind  that  cast-iron  memorial,  on  the  right, 
Sofya  Mikhailovna  is  buried.  Would  you  like  to  see?" 

The  friends  turned  to  the  right,  stepping  in  deep  snow  to 
wards  the  cast-iron  memorial. 

"Down  here,"  said  Shapkin,  pointing  to  a  little  stone  of 
white  marble.  "Some  subaltern  or  other  put  up  the  monu 
ment  on  her  grave." 

Uzelkov  slowly  took  off  his  hat  and  showed  his  bald  pate 
to  the  snow.  Eyeing  him,  Shapkin  also  took  off  his  hat,  and 
another  baldness  shone  beneath  the  sun.  The  silence  round 
about  was  like  the  tomb,  as  though  the  air  were  dead,  too. 
The  friends  looked  at  the  stone,  silent,  thinking. 

"She  is  asleep!"  Shapkin  broke  the  silence.  "And  she 
cares  very  little  that  she  took  the  guilt  upon  herself  and 
drank  cognac.  Confess,  Boris  Petrovich!" 

"What?"  asked  Uzelkov,  sternly. 

"That,  however  loathsome  the  past  may  be,  it's  better 


OLD  AGE  129 

than    this."     And    Shapkin    pointed    to    his    grey    hairs. 

"In  the  old  days  I  did  not  even  think  of  death.  ...  If 
I'd  meet  her,  I  would  have  circumvented  her,  but  now  .  .  . 
well,  now!" 

Sadness  took  hold  of  Uzelkov.  Suddenly  he  wanted  to 
cry,  passionately,  as  he  once  desired  to  love.  .  .  .  And  he 
felt  that  these  tears  would  be  exquisite,  refreshing.  Moisture 
came  out  of  his  eyes  and  a  lump  rose  in  his  throat,  but  .  .  . 
Shapkin  was  standing  by  his  side,  and  Uzelkov  felt  ashamed 
of  his  weakness  before  a  witness.  He  turned  back  quickly 
and  walked  towards  the  church. 

Two  hours  later,  having  arranged  with  the  churchwarden 
and  examined  the  church,  he  seized  the  opportunity  while 
Shapkin  was  talking  away  to  the  priest,  and  ran  to  shed  a 
tear.  He  walked  to  the  stone  surreptitiously,  with  stealthy 
steps,  looking  round  all  the  time.  The  little  white  monument 
stared  at  him  absently,  so  sadly  and  innocently,  as  though 
a  girl  and  not  a  wanton  divorcee  were  beneath. 

"If  I  could  weep,  could  weep!"  thought  Uzelkov. 

But  the  moment  for  weeping  had  been  lost.  Though  the 
old  man  managed  to  make  his  eyes  shine,  and  tried  to  bring 
himself  to  the  right  pitch,  the  tears  did  not  flow  and  the  lump 
did  not  rise  in  his  throat.  .  .  .  After  waiting  for  about  ten 
minutes,  Uzelkov  waved  his  arm  and  went  to  look  for 
Shapkin. 


THE  HOLLOW 


THE  village  of  Ukleyevo  being  situated  in  a  hollow,  only 
the  church-steeple  and  the  chimneys  of  the  calico  fac 
tories  could  be  seen  from  the  high  road  and  the  railway 
station.  When  passers-by  asked  what  village  it  was,  they 
were  told:  "That  is  where  the  Cantor  ate  all  the  caviar  at  a 
funeral." 

It  seems,  at  the  obsequies  for  the  mill-owner  Kostiukov, 
the  elderly  Cantor  saw  among  the  hors-d'oeuvres  some  fresh 
caviar,  and  proceeded  to  gobble  it  up.  His  friends  tapped 
him  on  the  shoulder,  they  pulled  him  by  the  sleeve,  but 
fle  was  so  literally  insensible  with  enjoyment  he  felt  nothing 
— he  could  only  swallow.  The  pot  had  contained  4  Ibs.  of 
caviar,  and  he  ate  it  all.  Ten  years  had  elapsed  since  then, 
the  Cantor  was  dead,  but  everyone  remembered  about  the 
caviar.  Perhaps  it  was  owing  to  their  straitened  existence, 
or  perhaps  the  people  were  incapable  of  observation;  how 
ever  it  be,  this  unimportant  incident  was  the  only  thing  re 
lated  about  Ukleyevo. 

Fever  was  in  perpetual  abode;  also  a  viscous  mire,  even 
in  summer,  particularly  by  the  side  of  the  palings  where 
aged  willows  hanging  their  branches  cast  a  shade  over  the 
road.  Just  about  there,  it  always  smelt  of  factory  refuse 
and  acetic  acid,  which  was  used  in  preparing  the  calico- 
print. 

The  factories  were  four  in  number — three  calico-print 

130 


THE  HOLLOW  131 

ones  and  a  tannery.  They  lay,  not  in  the  village,  but  on 
the  outskirts,  a  little  distance  away.  They  were  small  fac 
tories,  each  employing  about  400  workers.  The  residuum 
from  the  tannery  frequently  fouled  the  rivulet,  the  refuse 
infected  the  meadow,  the  peasants'  cattle  suffered  from  Si 
berian  plague,  and  the  tannery  was  ordered  to  close.  It  was 
considered  closed,  and  continued  to  work  secretly,  with  the 
assent  of  the  commissary  of  police  and  the  district  doctor,  to 
whom  the  proprietor  paid  ten  rubles  a  month  each. 

There  were  only  two  decent  houses  in  the  whole  village; 
these  were  built  of  stone,  and  each  had  a  tin  roof;  in  the  one 
were  the  offices  of  the  Volost,  in  the  other,  two-storied,  just 
opposite  the  church,  lived  Tzybukin, — Grigory  Petrov. 

Grigory  kept  a  grocery  store — that  was  for  the  sake  of 
appearances;  he  really  dealt  in  vodka,  cattle,  leather,  corn, 
pigs.  He  traded  in  what  he  required,  and  when,  for  instance, 
magpies  were  needed  abroad  for  ladies'  hats,  he  made  30 
kopecks  on  each  couple;  he  would  appropriate  the  felling- 
rights  of  a  wood,  he  would  lend  money  on  interest.  He  was, 
in  fact,  an  enterprising  man. 

He  had  two  sons;  the  elder,  Anisim,  served  in  the  detective 
division  of  police,  and  was  seldom  at  home.  The  younger 
son,  Stepan,  went  into  business  to  help  his  father,  but,  as  he 
suffered  from  bad  health  and  was  deaf,  they  did  not  expect 
any  real  help  from  him.  His  wife  Aksinya,  a  handsome 
svelte  woman,  wore  a  hat  on  holidays  and  carried  a  parasol; 
she  rose  early  and  went  to  bed  late,  and,  with  her  skirts 
gathered  up  and  rattling  her  keys,  she  ran  about  all  day 
to  the  store-house,  or  the  cellar,  or  the  shop.  Old  Tzybukin's 
eyes  kindled  with  pleasure  as  he  looked  at  her,  and  he  often 
wished  she  was  married  to  his  elder  son,  instead  of  to  the 
younger  deaf  one,  who  apparently  regarded  feminine  beauty 
with  indifference. 

The  old  man  was  very  domestic,  and  loved  his  family  more 
than  anything  in  the  world,  especially  his  elder  son  and  his 
daughter-in-law. 

Aksinya  was  no  sooner  married  to  her  deaf  husband  than 


02  ROTHSCHILD'S  FIDDLE 

she  revealed  an  unusual  capacity  for  business,  and  very 
soon  understood  to  whom  credit  could  be  given,  and  to 
whom  not.  She  always  kept  the  keys,  not  entrusting  them 
even  to  her  deaf  husband;  she  wrestled  with  accounts,  ex 
amined  the  horses  by  the  teeth  like  a  muzhik;  was  always 
bright  or  abusive;  but  whatever  she  did  or  said,  the  old  man 
was  touched  and  murmured:  "What  a  daughter-in-law.  Hm 
—yes.  Matushka!" 

He  was  a  widower,  but  less  than  a  year  after  his  son's 
marriage  he  could  endure  his  widowhood  no  longer,  and  also 
got  married.  At  thirty  versts  from  Ukleyevo  they  found 
an  unmarried  woman,  Varvara  Nikolayevna,  of  good  family, 
middle-aged,  and  handsome.  No  sooner  had  she  established 
herself  in  the  house,  on  the  second  floor,  than  everything 
assumed  a  brighter  hue,  just  as  if  new  panes  had  been  placed 
in  all  the  windows.  The  image-lamps  burned  clear  and  un- 
dimmed,  the  tables  were  covered  with  cloths,  or  linen  white 
as  snow,  red  flowers  appeared  in  the  windows  and  in  the 
patch  in  front  of  the  house,  and  at  dinner  each  had  a  plate 
given  him  instead  of  feeding  out  of  the  stewpot.  When  Var 
vara  Nikolayevna  smiled  her  pleasant  kind  smile,  it  seemed 
to  be  diffused  over  the  whole  house.  And — it  had  never 
happened  before — the  old,  the  poor,  the  pilgrims  took  to 
coming  into  the  yard.  Through  the  windows  were  heard  the 
sing-song  voices  of  the  Ukleyevo  women,  or  the  sickly  cough 
of  the  suffering  weak  men  discharged  for  drunkenness  from 
the  factories.  Varvara  helped  them  with  money,  bread,  old 
clothes,  and  subsequently,  when  she  got  used  to  the  place, 
she  even  drew  on  the  grocery  store  for  supplies.  Once,  the 
deaf  one  saw  her  carry  away  two-eighths  of  a  pound  of  tea; 
this  troubled  him. 

"Mamasha  took  two-eighths  of  a  pound  of  tea  from  here," 
he  communicated  to  his  father — "where  shall  I  write  it 
down?" 

The  old  man  said  nothing;  stood  still,  reflected,  knit  his 
brows,  and  went  upstairs  to  his  wife. 

"Varvarushka,  if  you  require  anything  from  the  shop,  take 


THE  HOLLOW  133 

it,"  he  said  fondly.  "Take  anything  you  want — don't  mind 
anyone," 

Next  day  as  he  crossed  the  yard,  the  deaf  one  called  to 
her: 

"Mamasha,  if  you  require  anything — take  it." 

This  almsgiving  was  something  new,  something  bright  and 
cheerful,  like  the  red  flowers  and  the  image-lamps.  When 
during  carnival,  or  at  the  festival  of  the  patron  saint,  which 
lasted  three  days,  the  peasants  had  such  badly  tainted  salt- 
meat  foisted  on  them  that  it  was  well-nigh  impossible  to  stand 
by  the  barrels,  and  scythes,  women's  shawls  and  hats  were 
pawned  by  the  drunkards,  and  the  factory-hands  wallowed 
in  the  mire  stupefied  by  bad  brandy,  and  sin  hung  in  the  air 
like  fog — then  it  all  seemed  somehow  easier  to  bear,  at  the 
thought  that  there  in  the  house  was  a  quiet  cleanly  woman, 
who  had  nothing  to  do  with  salt-meat  and  brandy.  Her  alms 
acted  in  those  dark  distressful  days  as  a  safety-valve  in  a 
machine. 

They  were  always  very  busy  in  the  house  of  Tzybukin. 
Before  sunrise  Aksinya  was  spluttering  over  her  ablutions  in 
the  vestibule,  the  samovar  was  boiling  in  the  kitchen,  and 
hissing  as  if  predicting  something  unpleasant.  Old  Grigory 
Petrov,  looking  neat  and  clean,  clad  in  a  long  black  frock- 
coat  and  print  trousers,  wearing  high  polished  boots,  walked 
about  the  room,  tapping  his  heels  like  the  father-in-law  in  a 
well-known  song.  Then  the  shop  was  opened.  When  it  was 
daylight  the  little  droshky  was  brought  to  the  door,  and  awaj 
drove  this  energetic  old  man.  As  he  sat  there,  with  his  cap 
pulled  down  to  his  ears,  no  one  would  have  credited  him  with 
fifty-six  years.  His  wife  and  daughter-in-law  always  saw 
him  off.  When  he  was  wearing  his  new  frock-coat,  and  driv 
ing  his  big  black  cob,  which  had  cost  300  rubles,  he  did  not 
like  the  peasants  to  approach  him  with  their  requests  and 
complaints.  He  disliked  and  despised  the  peasants,  and  if 
he  saw  any  peasant  hanging  about  the  gate  he  would  shout 
angrily  at  them: 

"What  are  you  doing  there?    Get  on  with  you," 


134  ROTHSCHILD'S  FIDDLE 

And  if  it  was  a  beggar  he  would  shout: 

"God  will  help  you!" 

He  was  on  business  bent.  Then  his  wife,  wearing  a  black 
apron,  tidied  the  rooms  or  helped  in  the  kitchen;  Aksinya 
attended  to  work  in  the  shop;  across  the  yard  drifted  the 
sound  of  jingling  bottles  and  money,  or  laughter  and  shout 
ing  or  angry  words  from  purchasers  whom  Aksinya  insulted. 
The  secret  and  clandestine  sale  of  vodka  was  carried  on  in 
the  shop  at  the  same  time.  The  deaf  one  also  sat  in  the 
shop,  or  else,  hatless^  with  his  hands  in  his  pockets,  walked 
about  the  streets  absently  casting  glances  into  the  cottages  or 
up  at  the  sky.  Tea  was  drunk  six  times  a  day,  and  four 
times  a  day  they  sat  down  to  meals.  In  the  evening  the  ac 
counts  were  made  up  and  inscribed,  then  all  went  to  bed  and 
slept  soundly. 

The  three  print  factories  were  joined  by  the  telephone  to 
the  domiciles  in  Ukleyevo  of  the  mill-owners  Khrymin  Senior, 
Khrymin  Junior,  and  Kostiukov.  The  telephone  was  also 
put  into  the  offices  of  the  Volost,  but  there  it  soon  ceased 
to  work,  and  bugs  and  cockroaches  established  themselves 
in  it.  The  Senior  of  the  Volost  was  somewhat  illiterate,  and 
wrote  every  word  with  a  capital,  so  when  the  telephone 
broke  down  he  said: 

"It  will  be  rather  difficult  for  us  now  without  the  tele 
phone." 

The  Senior  Khrymins  were  always  at  law  with  the  Junior 
Khrymins,  and  sometimes  the  Juniors  fought  among  them 
selves,  and  brought  law-suits  against  each  other;  then  their 
factory  had  to  close  for  a  month,  perhaps  two,  until  peace 
was  restored.  This  provided  a  certain  amount  of  distraction 
for  the  inhabitants  of  Ukelyevo,  as  each  row  gave  rise  to 
much  gossip  and  talk. 

Kostiukov  and  the  Junior  Khrymins  organised  some  racing 
for  the  carnival;  they  drove  furiously  through  Ukleyevo 
slaughtering  calves  in  their  career.  Aksinya,  rustling  in  her 
starched  petticoats,  took  a  turn  in  the  street  by  the  grocery 
rtore;  the  Junior  Khrymins  jcaught  her  up,  and  it  looked 


THE  HOLLOW  135 

as  if  they  had  forcibly  carried  her  off.  Then  out  came  old 
Tzybukin  to  show  off  his  new  horse,  and  he  took  with  him 
Varvara. 

In  the  evening,  after  the  racing  was  over,  and  many  had 
betaken  themselves  to  bed,  at  Khrymin  Junior's  they  made 
music  on  an  expensive  harmonium;  if  the  moon  was  shining, 
it  added  to  the  sounds  of  joy  and  gaiety  in  Ukleyevo,  which 
then  seemed  less  of  a  hole. 


Anisim,  the  eldest  son,  very  seldom  came  home — only 
on  the  big  festivals;  on  the  other  hand,  he  often  sent  gifts 
and  letters  to  his  people;  the  letters  were  written  in  a  strange, 
magnificent  handwriting,  and  each  time  on  a  sheet  of  paper 
resembling  a  petition.  The  letters  were  full  of  expressions 
which  Anisim  never  used  in  conversation:  "My  dear  father 
and  mother,  I  send  you  a  pound  of  green  tea  for  the  satis 
fying  of  your  physical  needs."  At  the  end  of  each  letter 
was  scribbled,  as  if  with  a  broken  nib,  "Anisim  Tzybukin," 
and  below,  again  in  that  most  excellent  handwriting,  " Agent. " 
The  letters  were  read  aloud  several  times,  and  the  old  man, 
touched  and  crimson  with  emotion,  said:  "There  now,  he  did 
not  want  to  live  at  home;  he  left  to  improve  himself — well, 
quite  right!  Each  destined  for  his  part!" 

Just  before  Shrove- tide  there  were  heavy  rain  and  sleet; 
the  old  man  and  Varvara  go  to  the  window  to  look  at  it, 
when  lo!  who  arrives  from  the  station  in  a  sleigh  but  Anisim. 
They  did  not  at  all  expect  him.  He  seemed  apprehensive, 
and  uneasy  from  his  first  entering  into  the  room,  nor  did 
this  manner  alter  during  his  whole  stay,  although  he  affected 
a  certain  sprightliness.  He  was  in  no  hurry  to  leave  them 
again,  and  it  rather  looked  as  if  he  had  been  discharged  from 
the  Service.  Varvara  was  pleased  at  his  arrival;  she  observed 
him  rather  shyly,  sighed  and  shook  her  head: 

"Now,  how  is  this,  batushka?"  she  asked.     "This  lad  is 


136  ROTHSCHILD'S  FIDDLE 

already  in  his  twenty-eighth  year,  and  is  still  dissipating  as 
a  bachelor.  Oh,  fie  upon  it!" 

Her  soft,  even  tones  did  not  carry  into  the  next  room. 
"Oh,  fie  upon  it! "  was  all  they  heard.  She  began  to  whisper 
with  the  old  man  and  Aksinya;  their  faces  assumed  the  sly, 
mysterious  expression  of  conspirators.  They  decided  to 
marry  Anisim. 

"Oh,  fie  upon  it!  ...  your  brother  has  been  married 
some  time,"  said  Varvara,  "while  you  remain  without  a 
mate,  like  a  cock  in  the  market-place.  How  is  that?  Get 
married,  with  God's  help.  Go  back  into  the  Service  if  you 
like,  and  your  wife  will  stay  at  home  to  help  us  in  the  work. 
You  lead  an  irregular  life,  my  lad,  and  have  forgotten  what 
is  order,  I  see.  Oh!  fie  upon  you!  Shame  on  you  towns 
folk!" 

When  the  Tzybukins  married,  the  most  beautiful  brides 
were  selected  for  them,  as  they  are  for  the  rich,  so  they 
sought  for  beauty  for  Anisim.  He  himself  had  an  insig 
nificant,  uninteresting  appearance,  a  weak,  unhealthy  con 
stitution;  was  short,  had  puffy,  swollen  cheeks,  just  as  if  he 
inflated  them;  he  never  blinked,  which  gave  him  a  hard, 
piercing  expression;  he  had  a  scant  carroty  beard,  which, 
when  he  indulged  in  thought,  he  poked  into  his  mouth  and 
nibbled.  Added  to  all  this,  he  frequently  indulged  in  drink, 
which  could  be  detected  by  his  face  and  his  walk.  When, 
however,  they  communicated  to  him  the  fact  that  they  had 
found  him  a  bride,  a  very  beautiful  one,  he  said:  "Oh!  well, 
there  is  nothing  wrong  with  me  either.  Our  family  of  Tzy- 
bukin,  one  must  allow,  are  all  good-looking." 

Quite  close  to  the  town  was  the  village  of  Torguyevo.  One 
half  of  it  had,  not  long  since,  been  incorporated  with  the 
town;  the  other  half  remained  village.  In  the  former  lived 
a  widow  in  a  small  house  with  her  sister.  The  sister  was 
very  poor,  and  was  hired  by  the  day.  This  latter  had  a 
daughter,  Lipa,  who  also  hired  by  the  day.  Lipa's  beauty 
was  well  recognised  in  Torguyevo,  but  her  extreme  poverty 
intimidated  people.  It  was  concluded,  either  that  some 


THE  HOLLOW  137 

middle-aged  man  or  widower  would  wed  her,  regardless  of 
her  poverty,  or  he  would  carry  her  off  "without  more  ado," 
and  she  would  be  able  to  provide  for  her  mother.  Varvara 
heard  of  Lipa  from  the  other  marriage-promoters,  and  went 
over  to  Torguyevo. 

Later,  as  is  necessary,  the  formal  interview  in  the  aunt's 
house  was  agreed  upon,  with  a  repast  of  "zauski"  (hors- 
d'oeuvre}  and  wine.  Lipa  was  attired  in  a  new  pink  frock, 
specially  made  for  the  occasion;  a  crimson  ribbon  like  a 
flame  gleamed  in  her  hair.  She  was  an  emaciated  little 
being,  pale  and  weak,  with  pretty  soft  features,  and  a  skin 
tanned  by  exposure  to  the  weather.  The  expression  of  her 
eyes  were  those  of  a  child,  trusting  and  inquisitive,  and 
she  always  smiled  in  a  sad  timid  way.  She  was  quite  young 
— a  girl  with  an  undeveloped  figure,  yet  of  a  marriageable 
age.  She  was  decidedly  pleasing,  except  for  her  large  mascu 
line  hands,  which  now  hung  idly  by  her  side  like  two  great 
claws. 

"She  has  no  fortune  ...  we  don't  mind  that,"  said  the 
old  man  to  the  aunt.  "For  our  son,  Stepan,  we  also  chose 
a  wife  from  a  poor  family;  now  we  cannot  sufficiently  con 
gratulate  ourselves,  in  the  house  or  in  the  business  .  .  .  she 
is  worth  her  weight  in  gold." 

Lipa  stood  by  the  door,  and  seemed  to  say:  "Do  with  me 
what  you  will,  I  trust  you."  But  her  mother,  Praskovya 
the  day-worker,  was  concealing  herself  in  the  kitchen,  dying 
of  fright.  Once,  in  her  youth,  a  merchant  for  whom  she 
washed  the  floors,  stamped  on  her  in  his  rage,  which  so 
frightened  her  that  she  swooned  away,  and  for  the  rest  of 
her  life  fear  lurked  in  her  breast.  Seated  in  the  kitchen, 
she  attempted  to  hear  what  the  guests  were  saying,  and  all 
the  time  crossed  herself,  pressing  her  fingers  to  her  fore 
head,  and  with  her  eyes  fixed  on  the  image  of  the  saint. 
Anisim,  slightly  drunk,  opened  the  kitchen-door,  and  said 
brightly: 

"Why  are  you  sitting  here,  precious  mamasha?  It  is  dull 
without  you." 


138  ROTHSCHILD'S  FIDDLE 

Praskovya,  quailing  and  pressing  her  hand  to  her  wasted 
skinny  bosom,  said: 

"Mercy,  what  do  you  want?  I  am  much  obliged  to 
you." 

After  the  inspection,  the  wedding-day  was  fixed  upon. 

At  home  Anisim  did  nothing  but  walk  about  the  rooms 
whistling,  then,  suddenly  remembering  something,  would 
stand  quite  still,  absorbed  in  thought,  fixing  his  eyes  on  the 
floor  as  if  he  would  like  to  pierce  with  a  look  far  into  the 
earth.  He  expressed  no  satisfaction  at  getting  married,  or 
getting  married  so  soon — the  first  Monday  after  Quasimodo 
Sunday — nor  a  wish  to  see  his  bride-elect  again;  he  just 
whistled.  It  was  evident  that  he  was  only  marrying  because 
his  father  and  step-mother  wished  it,  and  because  in  the  vil 
lage  it  was  customary:  sons  married  to  provide  workers  in 
the  house.  He  was  in  no  hurry  to  leave,  and  behaved  alto 
gether  differently  to  what  he  did  on  former  visits.  He  seemed 
absent-minded  too,  and  his  answers  were  seldom  to  the 
point. 

Ill 

In  the  village  dwelt  two  maiden  sisters,  sempstresses  both. 
They  were  given  the  order  for  the  new  dresses  for  the 
wedding,  so  they  often  came  over  to  fit,  and  stayed  a  long 
time  partaking  of  tea.  They  made  a  cinnamon-coloured 
dress  trimmed  with  black  lace  and  jet  for  Varvara,  and  a 
pale  green  one  with  a  yellow  front  and  a  train  for  Aksinya. 
When  the  toilettes  were  finished,  Tzybukin  paid  the  sisters 
in  kind  from  the  shop,  and  they  departed  from  him  with  a 
heavy  heart,  bearing  in  their  arms  a  bundle  of  stearine 
candles  and  some  sardines  which  they  did  not  at  all  want. 
When  they  had  left  the  village  behind  them,  they  sat  on  a 
mound  and  wept. 

Anisim  arrived  three  days  before  the  wedding  in  a  new 
suit  of  clothes.  He  had  new  goloshes,  and,  instead  of  a 
tie,  a  red  ribbon  with  a  pattern  of  rings  on  it;  he  also  had 


THE  HOLLOW  139 

a  new  cloak,  slung  over  his  shoulder.  Having  solemnly  ad 
dressed  a  prayer  to  God,  he  greeted  his  father,  and  gave 
him  ten  silver  rubles  and  ten  5o-kopeck  pieces;  he  gave 
Varvara  the  same;  and  to  Aksinya  he  gave  twenty  2 5 -kopeck  > 
pieces.  The  great  charm  of  this  present  consisted  in  the 
fact  that  all  the  money  was  quite  new,  as  if  carefully  selected, 
and  gleamed  in  the  sun.  Anisim,  attempting  to  appear  staid 
and  serious,  puffed  out  his  cheeks,  twisted  his  face  and 
smelt  of  wine — he  must  have  jumped  out  at  every  station 
and  run  to  the  buffet.  There  was  still  that  would-be-easy 
manner,  something  unnatural,  about  him.  The  old  man  and 
Anisim  drank  tea  and  had  a  bite,  while  Varvara  turned  and 
re-turned  her  new  rubles  in  her  hand,  and  asked  questions 
about  their  fellow-countrymen  living  in  the  town. 

"They  are  all  right,  thank  God,"  answered  Anisim.  "There 
has  been  an  event  in  Ivan  Yegorov's  family  ...  he  has 
lost  his  old  woman,  Sofya  Nikiforovna,  from  consumption. 
The  t repast  to  her  memory,'  ordered  at  the  confectioners, 
was  two  rubles  and  a  half  per  head,  wine  included.  What 
fellows  our  countrymen  are!  For  them  also  it  was  two  and 
a  half  rubles — and  they  ate  nothing.  Can  a  peasant  appre 
ciate  good  food?" 

"Two  and  a  half!"  said  the  old  man,  shaking  his  head. 

"Well,  what  of  that?  It  is  not  the  country.  You  enter 
a  restaurant  to  take  a  snack,  you  ask  for  this  and  that,  soon 
there  is  a  group,  you  drink  .  .  .  you  look  up,  why,  it  is 
dawn.  .  .  .  'Excuse  me,  three  or  four  rubles  each  to  pay.' 
And  when  you  are  with  Samarodov,  he  insists  on  coffee  and 
cognac  to  end  up  with,  and  cognac  is  six  griveniks  (60  ko 
pecks)  a  glass." 

"It's  all  lies!     It's  all  lies!"  said  the  old  man  ecstatically. 

"I  am  always  with  Samarodov  now.  It  is  Samarodov  who 
writes  my  letters  to  you.  He  writes  splendidly.  And  if  I  told 
you,  mamasha,"  gaily  added  Anisim,  turning  to  Varvara, 
"what  sort  of  a  fellow  this  Samarodov  is,  you  would  not 
believe  it.  We  call  him  Muktar,  for  he  is  like  an  Armenian, 
quite  black.  I  see  through  him;  I  know  all  his  affairs  as 


140  ROTHSCHILD'S  FIDDLE 

well  as  I  do  my  own  five  fingers.  He  feels  it  too,  mamasha, 
and  follows  me  round,  never  leaves  me,  and  now  we  are  as 
inseparable  as  water.  He  is  rather  afraid  of  me,  but  cannot 
exist  without  me;  where  I  go,  he  goes.  I  have  right  good 
eyes,  mamasha;  I  go  to  a  rag-fair,  I  see  a  peasant  selling 
a  shirt.  'Stay,  that  is  a  stolen  shirt.'  And  it  is  true,  the 
shirt  was  stolen." 

"But  how  do  you  know?"  asks  Varvara. 

"I  don't  know,  but  just  my  eyes  are  like  that.  I  don't 
know  what  shirt  is  there,  but  only  that  something  draws  me 
to  it:  it  is  stolen,  that's  all.  Among  us  detectives,  they  say 
now:  Well,  Anisim,  go  and  shoot  woodcock.'  That  means 
to  search  for  stolen  booty.  Yes,  anyone  may  steal,  but  how 
are  they  to  hide  it?  The  earth  is  large,  but  there  is  nowhere 
to  conceal  plunder." 

"In  our  village,  a  sheep  and  two  yearling  ewes  were  stolen 
last  week,  at  Guntoriov's,"  said  Varvara,  sighing.  "And 
there  was  no  one  to  search  for  them.  Fie  upon  it!" 

"Well,  what  of  that?  Search  can  be  made — it's  nothing, 
it's  quite  easy." 

The  wedding-day  arrived;  it  was  a  cool,  clear,  joyous 
April  da}'.  From  early  morning  troikas  and  pairs  were 
being  furiously  driven  through  Ukleyevo;  there  was  a  jingle 
of  grelots,  and  multi-coloured  ribbons  were  flowing  from  the 
horses'  manes  and  shaft-bows.  The  rooks  were  cawing  among 
the  willows,  disturbed  by  this  unusual  stir  and  bustle,  and 
the  starlings  sang  unwearyingly  as  if  rejoicing  that  there 
was  a  wedding  at  the  Tzybukins'.  In  the  house  a  repast  was 
laid  out  consisting  of  long  fish,  hams,  stuffed  chickens,  a 
variety  of  salt  and  pickled  foods,  and  a  number  of  bottles 
of  vodka  and  wines.  Added  to  this  was  a  smell  of  smoked 
sausages  and  sour  lobsters.  By  the  table,  stamping  his  heels 
and  grinding  one  knife  on  another,  stood  the  old  man.  Var 
vara  was  in  constant  request;  with  a  harassed  mien,  and 
breathless,  she  ran  to  the  kitchen,  where  Kostiukov's  male- 
cook,  and  the  neat  woman-cook  from  Khrymin  Junior,  had 
been  working  since  dawn.  Aksinya,  with  her  hair  curled,  in 


THE  HOLLOW  141 

her  stays,  without  a  dress,  wearing  new  creaky  boots,  flew 
about  the  yard  like  a  whirlwind,  her  bare  neck  and  knees 
gleaming  in  the  sunlight.  It  was  all  very  noisy;  there  were 
high  words  and  swearing;  the  passers-by  paused  by  the  wide 
open  gate,  feeling  there  was  something  unusual  astir. 

"They  have  gone  for  the  bride,"  was  the  rumour. 

The  horses'  bells  tinkled,  and  the  sound  died  far  away  in 
the  distance.  After  two  o'clock  people  began  running;  the 
bells  were  heard  again:  the  bride  is  coming! 

The  church  was  full,  the  candelabra  lit,  and  the  choris 
ters,  according  to  the  old  man's  desire,  were  singing  from 
sheets  of  music.  The  glitter  of  lights  and  the  bright  dresses 
dazzled  Lipa.  It  seemed  to  her  that  the  choristers,  with  their 
loud  voices,  were  knocking  on  her  head  with  hammers.  Her 
stays,  which  she  was  wearing  for  the  first  time  in  her  life, 
and  her  boots,  pinched  her,  and  her  impression  was  that  of 
regaining  consciousness  after  a  fainting  fit;  she  saw,  and 
could  understand  nothing.  Anisim  in  a  black  frock-coat, 
wearing  a  red  ribbon  instead  of  a  tie,  was  pensive,  gazing  into 
space;  and  each  time  the  choir  raised  their  high  voices  he 
hastily  crossed  himself.  He  felt  some  emotion  in  his  inner 
most  heart,  and  he  would  have  liked  to  have  wept.  The 
church  was  so  familiar  to  him  from  his  earliest  childhood. 
Long  ago  his  late  mother  had  brought  him  here  for  com 
munion.  Long  ago  he  had  sung  in  the  choir  with  the  other 
boys.  He  knew  so  well  each  nook  and  ikon.  And  now  they 
were  marrying  him;  he  must  marry  for  propriety's  sake. 
Then,  as  if  he  did  not  understand  it,  he  forgot  altogether 
about  the  wedding.  Tears  prevented  him  from  seeing  the 
ikons;  he  was  very  heavy  at  heart.  He  prayed,  and  asked 
God  that  the  impending  misfortunes  which  were  about  to 
engulf  him,  if  not  to-day,  then  to-morrow,  should  pass  over 
him  somehow,  like  the  thunder-clouds  during  a  drought  pass 
over  the  country  without  emitting  one  drop  of  rain.  And 
although  his  sins  piled  up  in  the  past  were  many,  very  many, 
and  irreparable  ones,  so  that  it  seemed  unavailing  to  pray 
for  forgivenessness,  yet  he  prayed,  and  also  sobbed  aloud, 


142  ROTHSCHILD'S  FIDDLE 

This  nobody  heeded,  as  they  merely  thought:  He  is  drunk, 

A  child's  plaintive  voice  was  heard: 

"Dear  Nanny,  take  me  away." 

"Silence  there!"  called  the  priest. 

On  their  return  from  the  church  the  bride  and  bridegroom 
were  followed  by  a  large  concourse  of  people.  There  were 
crowds  by  the  shop,  by  the  gate,  in  the  yard,  and  standing 
by  the  house  were  some  women  who  had  come  to  sing  paeans 
to  the  newly-married.  The  young  couple  had  hardly  crossed 
the  threshold  when  the  choristers,  who  were  already  stand 
ing  in  the  vestibule  with  the  music  in  their  hands,  burst 
loudly  into  song.  A  band,  purposely  hired  from  the  town, 
also  started  to  play.  Frothy  beverages  in  high  beakers  were 
brought  round,  then  the  contractor-carpenter  Yelizarov,  a 
.all  spare  man,  with  such  bushy  eyebrows  that  his  eyes  were 
almost  invisible,  turning  to  the  young  couple,  said: 

"Anisim,  and  you  my  child,  love  one  another;  be  God-fear 
ing,  my  children,  and  the  Queen  of  Heaven  will  not  abandon 
you." 

He  then  fell  on  the  old  man's  neck  and  wept. 

"Grigory  Petrov,  let  us  weep,  let  us  weep  for  joy!"  he 
said  in  a  shrill  voice,  and  immediately  and  suddenly  began 
to  laugh,  continuing  in  a  deep  bass  voice:  "Ho,  ho,  ho!  And 
you  have  a  good  sister-in-law.  She  keeps  everything  run 
ning  smooth,  there  is  no  rattling,  all  the  machinery  is  in 
good  repair  and  well  screwed  together." 

Although  born  in  the  district  of  Yegoryev,  he  had  worked 
almost  since  childhood  in  the  factories  of  Ukleyevo  and  the 
surrounding  district,  and  was  therefore  a  resident  in  these 
parts.  He  had  been  known  a  long  time  as  a  tall  and 
emaciated  old  man,  and  had  long  ago  been  given  the  name 
of  the  "Crutch."  Perhaps  it  was  because  he  had  been  oc 
cupied  for  upwards  of  forty  years  only  on  repairs  in  the 
factories,  that  he  viewed  every  man  and  thing  from  the  one 
aspect  of  sound  or  unsound:  Do  they  want  repairing?  And 
now,  before  sitting  down  to  table,  he  tried  several  chairs  to 
see  if  they  were  sound,  and  he  even  felt  the  gang-fish. 


THE  HOLLOW  143 

After  a  go  at  the  frothy  beverages,  every  one  took  a  seat 
at  the  tables.  The  guests  chatted  and  creaked  their  chairs, 
the  choristers  sang  in  the  vestibule,  the  band  played,  the 
peasant  women  in  a  monotone  extolled  the  married  couple; 
all  which  made  such  a  terrifying  noise  and  wild  medley  of 
sound  that  one's  head  felt  like  splitting.  The  Crutch  twisted 
and  turned  in  his  chair,  jostled  his  neighbours  with  his  elbows, 
interfered  with  their  talk,  wept  and  laughed. 

"Ah!  girls,  girls,  girls!"  he  muttered  quickly,  "Aksin- 
yushka,  Varvarushka,  we  will  all  live  in  peace  and  good-will, 
my  little  dears." 

He  drank  but  little  as  a  rule,  and  now  he  was  drunk  after 
one  glass  of  " English  brandy."  This  distasteful  drink,  made 
of  no  one  knows  what,  numbed  the  brains  of  all  those  who 
drank  it,  just  as  if  they  were  suffering  from  concussion. 

There  were  priests,  factory  clerks  with  their  wives,  trades 
men  and  publicans  from  other  villages.  The  Senior  of  the 
Volost  and  his  scribe,  who  had  served  together  for  fourteen 
years,  and  during  all  that  time  had  not  signed  a  single  paper, 
nor  dismissed  from  the  offices  of  the  Volost  a  single  person, 
without  defrauding  them  or  imposing  on  them,  now  sat  side 
by  side,  both  adipose,  satiated,  and  looking  so  replete  with 
iniquity  that  even  the  tissue  of  their  skin  had  something 
rascally  about  it.  The  wife  of  the  scribe,  a  wizen,  squint- 
eyed  woman,  brought  with  her  all  her  children,  and,  like  a 
very  bird  of  prey,  leered  at  all  the  dishes,  and  seized  all  that 
came  within  her  reach,  filling  her  pockets  for  herself  and  her 
children. 

Lipa  sat  like  one  paralysed,  and  with  the  same  expression 
as  she  had  in  church.  Anisim,  from  the  time  of  his  first  ac 
quaintance  with  her,  had  never  addressed  her  a  single  word, 
so  that  he  did  not  know,  up  to  now,  what  kind  of  a  voice 
she  had.  Sitting  now  by  her  side,  he  still  kept  silence,  drink 
ing  "English  brandy,"  and  when  he  had  got  drunk  he  said 
to  his  aunt,  who  sat  opposite: 

"I  have  a  friend  named  Samarodov.  A  very  special  fellow. 
He  belongs  to  the  first  guild  of  merchants,  and  so  glib !  But. 


144  ROTHSCHILD'S  FIDDLE 

auntie,  I  see  through  him,  and  he  knows  it.  Let  us  drink 
to  the  health  of  Samarodov." 

Wearied  and  confused,  Varvara  made  the  round  of  the 
tables,  serving  the  guests,  but  was  apparently  satisfied  that 
there  was  so  much  and  such  food  that  no  one  would  be  able 
to  find  fault. 

The  sun  went  down,  and  the  supper  continued.  The 
company  no  longer  knew  what  they  ate  or  what  they  drank; 
no  one  could  hear  distinctly  what  was  being  said;  only 
at  intervals,  when  the  music  in  the  yard  softened,  some 
woman  or  other  could  be  heard  shouting: 

"You  have  sucked  our  blood — devils,  destruction  be  on 
you!" 

In  the  evening  there  was  dancing  to  music.  The  Junior 
Khrymins  arrived  with  their  wine,  and  one  of  them,  while 
the  quadrille  was  being  danced,  held  a  bottle  in  each  hand 
and  a  glass  in  his  mouth.  This  immensely  added  to  the  gen 
eral  hilarity.  Between  the  quadrille  they  danced  their 
squatting-dance.  Green  Aksinya  flitted  about,  and  her  train 
made  quite  a  wind;  someone  tore  away  the  flounce,  and  the 
Crutch  exclaimed: 

"I  say,  children,  the  skirting  is  down!" 

Aksinya  had  gray  naive  eyes  which  seldom  blinked,  while 
an  artless  smile  often  lit  up  her  face.  With  those  unblinking 
eyes,  a  small  head  on  the  end  of  a  long  neck,  and  her  slim 
figure,  there  was  something  snake-like  about  her.  In  her 
green  dress  with  the  yellow  front,  and  with  her  peculiar  smile, 
she  resembled  a  viper  when  it  looks  out  of  the  young  rye  in 
spring,  stretching  and  drawing  in  its  neck  at  the  passer-by. 
Khrymin's  behaviour  with  her  was  very  free.  It  had  long 
been  noticed  that  with  the  elder  of  them  she  was  on  terms 
of  the  utmost  familiarity.  The  deaf  husband  noticed  noth 
ing,  never  looked  at  her;  he  sat  with  his  legs  crossed,  eating 
nuts,  and  made  such  a  noise  cracking  them  with  his  teeth 
that  it  sounded  each  time  like  a  pistol-shot. 

And  now,  Tzybukin  himself  entered  the  dancing  circle,  and 
waved  his  handkerchief  as  a  sign  that  he  too  wished  to  dance. 


THE  HOLLOW  145 

Through  the  house  and  out  into  the  yard  went  the  acclama 
tion: 

"Himself  will  dance !    Himself! " 

Varvara  danced  while  the  old  man  waved  his  handkerehie 
and  tapped  his  heels;  but  the  onlookers  in  the  yard,  leaning 
on  each  other  and  looking  in  at  the  window  went  into  ecsta 
sies,  and  for  a  minute  forgave  him  all — his  riches  and  hit 
offences. 

"Bravo!  Capital  fellow,  Grigory  Petrov!"  the  crowd  vo 
ciferated.  "Go  on! — ha,  ha! — you  are  good  for  a  lot  yet!" 

All  this  was  over  late,  after  one  o'clock.  Anisim,  stagger 
ing,  went  up  to  thank  the  musicians  and  singers,  and  pre 
sented  them  each  with  a  new  $o-kopeck  piece.  The  old  man, 
not  staggering,  but  pausing  on  each  foot,  saw  the  guests  off, 
and  told  each  one: 

"The  wedding  cost  two  thousand  rubles." 

When  they  had  all  dispersed,  someone  was  discovered  to 
have  exchanged  the  Shikalovo  publican's  new  "podiovka" 
(sleeveless  coat)  for  an  old  one.  Anisim  at  once  called  out 
excitedly: 

"Wait,  I'll  find  him  at  once.    I  know  who  took  it!    Wait! " 

He  ran  out  into  the  street,  and  chased  someone.  He  was 
captured,  brought  home,  and  they  shoved  him,  drunk,  red 
with  anger,  and  sweating,  into  the  room  where  the  aunt  had 
already  helped  Lipa  to  bed. 

IV 

After  the  lapse  of  five  days  Anisim,  about  to  take 
departure,  went  upstairs  to  Varvara  to  say  good-bye. 
All  the  image-lamps  were  burning,  there  was  a  smell  of  in 
cense,  and  Varvara  herself  was  seated  at  the  window  knitting 
stockings  of  red  wool. 

"You  have  stayed  a  very  little  while  with  us,"  she  said; 
"do  you  find  it  dull?  Fie  upon  you!  We  live  in  comfort, 
your  wedding  was  celebrated  in  a  very  fitting  manner.  The 
old  man  says  two  thousand  rubles  were  spent  on  it.  In  a 


146  ROTHSCHILD'S  FIDDLE 

word  we  live  like  tradespeople,  only  there  it  is,  it's  dull  here. 
Then  we  defraud  too  many  people.  It  makes  my  heart  ache 
to  cheat  so.  ...  Oh,  my  God!  Whether  we  barter  a  horse, 
or  buy  anything,  or  hire  workers,  everywhere  there  is  fraud. 
Fraud,  and  again  fraud.  The  linseed  oil  in  the  grocery  stores 
is  rancid,  putrid;  birch-gum  would  be  better  for  people.  Is 
it  impossible,  for  mercy's  sake,  to  deal  in  good  butter?" 

"Each  destined  for  his  part,  mamasha!" 

"But  must  it  mean  corruption?  Aie,  aie!  If  you  spoke 
to  your  father.  ..." 

"But  speak  to  him  yourself." 

"Nay,  but  I  have,  and  he  uses  the  same  phrase  as  you 
do:  'Each  destined  for  his  part.'  In  the  world  beyond  you 
will  be  tried  for  that:  each  destined  for  his  part!  God  is  a 
just  judge." 

"But  of  course  there  will  be  no  trial,"  and  Anisim  sighed. 
"For  you  see  there  is  no  God,  mamasha.  Who  will  there  be 
to  judge?" 

Varvara  looked  at  him  in  astonishment,  smiled,  and 
clasped  her  hands.  Seeing  that  she  was  so  genuinely  sur 
prised  at  his  words  and  regarded  him  as  an  oddity,  he  grew 
troubled: 

"It  may  be  that  there  is  a  God,  but  no  faith,"  he  said. 
"When  I  was  married,  I  did  not  feel  like  myself.  Look,  it 
is  like  when  you  take  an  egg  from  under  a  hen  and  a  chick 
chirps  inside,  so  my  conscience  chirped  while  I  was  being 
married.  I  thought:  There  is  a  God.  And  then  when  I 
came  out  of  the  church  the  feeling  was  gone.  And  how 
should  I  know  if  there  is  a  God  or  not?  No  one  taught  us 
about  Him,  the  child  is  hardly  weaned  from  its  mother's 
breast  before  it  learnt:  Each  destined  for  his  part.  Papa, 
you  see,  does  not  believe  in  God  either.  You  said  once 
that  Guntoriov's  sheep  had  been  stolen.  ...  I  found  the 
thief;  it  was  a  peasant  of  Shikalovo  who  stole  them.  He 
stole  them,  and  my  papa  has  the  hide.  .  .  .  There's  faith 
for  you!" 

Anisim  blinked  his  eyes  and  shook  his  head. 


THE  HOLLOW  147 

And  the  Senior  of  the  Volost  does  not  believe  in  God," 
he  continued,  "nor  the  scribe  either,  nor  the  sacristan.  And  if 
they  go  to  church  and  observe  the  fasts,  it  is  only  so  that 
people  should  not  speak  ill  of  them,  and  in  case  there  may 
indeed  be  some  last  Judgment.  It  is  said,  if  the  end  of  the 
world  came  now,  it  is  because  men  have  grown  weak,  they 
honour  not  their  parents,  and  so  forth.  That's  all  nonsense. 
I,  mamasha,  understand  that  all  the  trouble  comes  from 
people  having  so  little  conscience.  I  see  clearly,  and  under 
stand.  When  a  man  has  stolen  a  shirt,  I  can  find  him.  The 
fellow  is  sitting  in  a  tavern;  to  you  it  may  appear  that  he 
is  merely  drinking  tea,  but  I,  tea  or  no  tea,  can  see  besides 
that  he  has  no  conscience.  Thus  you  go  through  the  whole 
day,  and  don't  find  a  man  with  a  conscience.  The  whole 
reason  is  because  they  do  not  know  if  there  is  a  God  or 
not.  .  .  .  Well,  mamasha,  good-bye,  keep  well,  and  bear 
me  no  ill-will." 

Anisim  made  Varvara  a  low  bow. 

"We  thank  you  for  all  you  have  done,"  he  said.  "You 
are  a  great  benefit  to  our  family ;  you  are  a  very  good  woman, 
and  I  am  very  grateful  to  you." 

Anisim  seemed  much  affected,  went  out,  then  returned 
again  and  said: 

"Samarodov  has  involved  me  in  a  business  matter.  Either 
we  shall  become  rich  or  we  shall  be  ruined.  If  anything 
should  happen,  you  will  comfort  my  father,  won't  you,  ma 
masha?" 

"Oh!  come  now,  what  are  you  saying?  Fie  upon 
you!  .  .  .  God  is  merciful.  But  see,  Anisim,  you  should 
show  a  little  fondness  for  your  wife;  you  look  at  each  other 
so  crossly;  if  only  you  smiled." 

"How  strange  she  is,"  said  Anisim,  sighing.  "She  does  not 
seem  to  understand  anything — always  remains  silent.  She 
is  very  young,  we  must  let  her  develop." 

The  big,  sleek,  white  cob  and  tarantass  were  waiting  at 
the  door.  Old  Tzybukin  sprang  into  it,  seated  himself  alertly, 
and  took  the  reins.  Anisim  embraced  Varvara,  Aksinya,  and 


148  ROTHSCHILD'S  FIDDLE 

his  brother.  Lipa  was  also  standing  at  the  door,  standing 
motionless,  looking  away,  just  as  if  she  had  not  come  to 
see  anyone  off,  as  if  she  were  there  without  a  purpose. 
Anisim  went  up  to  her,  and  touched  her  on  the  cheek  ever 
so  lightly  with  his  lips.  "Good-bye,"  he  said.  And  she, 
without,  looking  at  him,  smiled  so  strangely;  her  face  quiv 
ered,  and  everyone,  for  some  reason  or  other,  felt  sorry  for 
her.  Anisim  also  leapt  Into  his  seat,  and  sat  with  his  arms 
akimbo  as  if  he  thought  himself  very  elegant. 

When  they  had  climbed  out  of  the  hollow,  Anisim  glanced 
several  times  back  at  the  village.  It  was  a  warm,  clear  day. 
For  the  first  time  this  year  the  cattle  were  being  driven  out 
to  graze,  and  girls  and  women  in  holiday  attire  were  walking 
by  the  herds.  A  brown  bull  was  bellowing,  rejoicing  in  his 
freedom,  and  striking  the  ground  with  his  fore-feet.  The 
larks  were  singing  everywhere  in  the  air,  above,  below. 
Anisim  noticed  too  the  pretty  white  church — it  had  lately 
been  whitewashed — and  remembered  how  he  had  prayed 
there  five  days  ago;  he  glanced  at  the  school  with  its  green 
roof,  at  the  river  where  once  he  used  to  bathe  and  fish;  and 
a  feeling  of  joy  possessed  him — he  wished  a  wall  would  sud 
denly  rise  in  front  of  him  out  of  the  ground,  and  prevent  him 
from  going  any  further;  then  he  would  remain  with  only  a 
past. 

When  they  arrived  at  the  station,  they  went  to  the  buffet 
and  drank  a  glass  of  sherry.  The  old  man  felt  in  his  pocket 
for  his  purse. 

"I  will  treat  you!"  said  Anisim. 

The  old  man,  with  a  full  heart,  clapped  him  on  the  shoul 
der,  and  winked  at  the  waiter  as  much  as  to  say:  "See  what 
a  son  I  have!" 

"If  you  remain  at  home,  Anisim,  and  attend  to  the  busi 
ness,  you  could  name  your  price!  My  boy,  I  would  gild 
you  from  head  to  toe!" 

"It  is  quite  impossible,  papasha." 

The  sherry  was  sourish  and  smelt  of  sealing-wax,  but 
they  drank  another  glassful. 


THE  HOLLOW  149 

On  his  return  from  the  station,  just  at  first  the  old  man 
hardly  recognised  his  youngest  daughter-in-law.  As  soon 
as  her  husband  had  left,  Lipa  underwent  a  change;  she  sud 
denly  became  quite  cheerful.  Barefooted,  in  an  old  worn 
petticoat,  her  sleeves  turned  up  to  the  shoulder,  she  sang  in 
clear,  silvery  tones  as  she  scrubbed  the  stairs;  then,  as  she 
poured  the  contents  of  the  pail  outside,  she  stood  and  looked 
at  the  sun,  smiling  so  brightly  that  she  too  seemed  akin  to 
the  larks. 

An  old  worker  passing  by  the  gate  shook  his  head,  and 
croaked: 

"That  daughter-in-law  of  yours,  Grigory  Petrov,  was  once 
more  sent  by  God,"  he  said.  "They  are  not  women,  they  are 
angels." 


On  the  8th  of  July,  a  Friday,  Yelizarov,  nicknamed 
the  Crutch,  and  Lipa  were  returning  from  the  village  of 
Kazanskoe,  where  they  had  been  for  the  festival  of  the 
patron  saint:  the  Virgin  Mary  of  Kazan.  Far  behind  lagged 
Prascovia,  sick  and  sorry  and  out  of  breath.  It  was  towards 
evening. 

"A-aa,"  said  the  Crutch  in  astonishment  as  he  listened 
to  Lipa.  "A-aa,  well?" 

"I  am  very  fond  of  jam,  Ilya  Makarych,"  said  Lipa.  "I 
seat  myself  in  a  corner,  drink  tea  and  eat  jam.  Or  Varvara 
Nikolayevna  and  I  drink  tea  together,  and  she  tells  me  some 
pretty  tale.  They  have  a  lot  of  jam — four  pots.  'Eat,  Lipa,' 
she  says,  'don't  be  afraid.'  " 

"A-aa  .  .  .  four  pots!" 

"They  live  so  well,  tea  and  white  loaves,  and  as  much 
meat  as  they  want.  They  live  comfortably,  but,  Ilya  Maka 
rych,  I  am  frightened.  Oh,  ee — ee,  but  I  am  frightened!" 

"But  what  are  you  frightened  of,  my  child?"  asked  the 
Crutch,  glancing  round  to  see  if  Praskovya  was  far  behind. 

"First,  on  the  day  of  the  wedding  I  was  frightened  of 


v.5o  ROTHSCHILD'S  FIDDLE 

Anisim  Grigoryich.  There  was  nothing  special — he  was  not 
rude;  only  when  he  came  near  me  I  felt  cold  all  over  me,  in 
all  my  bones.  And  I  never  slept  one  single  night;  I  shook 
all  over,  and  prayed  to  God,  And  now,  Ilya  Makarych,  I 
fear  Aksinya.  There's  nothing  wrong  with  her;  she  is  always 
smiling,  only  at  times  she  looks  out  of  the  window,  and  her 
eyes  are  so  angry  that  they  turn  green  just  like  those  of 
the  sheep  in  the  shed.  The  Junior  Khrymins  be-devil  her: 
'Your  old  man,  they  say,  has  a  small  estate  called  Butiokino, 
40  deciatins;  on  the  property,  they  say,  there  is  sand  and 
water,  so  you,  Aksinya,  arrange  for  a  brick-kiln  to  be  erected, 
and  we  will  take  shares.'  Bricks  are  now  worth  twenty  rubles 
a  thousand.  A  very  profitable  affair.  Last  evening  after 
supper,  Aksinya  said  to  the  old  man:  'I  want,'  says  she,  Ho 
construct  a  brick-kiln  in  Butiokino:  I  will  be  superintendent.' 
So  she  says,  and  smiles.  Grigory  Petrov's  face  darkened; 
you  could  see  it  did  not  please  him:  'So  long  as  I  live  we  work 
together.'  Her  eyes  gleamed,  and  she  ground  her  teeth.  We 
had  fritters — she  never  ate  one." 

"A-aa!"  said  the  Crutch  in  astonishment.  "She  could  not 
eat?" 

"And  I  tell  you,  when  she  goes  to  bed,  mercy!"  contin 
ued  Lipa.  "After  a  short  half-hour  of  sleep,  up  she  jumps, 
walks — walks  and  peers  about  to  see  if  a  peasant  is  setting 
anything  on  fire,  or  has  stolen  anything.  It  is  dreadful  to 
be  with  her,  Ilya  Makarych.  The  Junior  Khrymins  never 
went  to  bed  after  the  wedding;  they  went  into  the  town  for 
some  trial.  People  gossip,  and  say  it  is  because  of  Aksinya. 
Two  of  the  brothers  had  promised  to  construct  the  kiln,  the 
third  took  offence,  so  the  factory  closed  for  a  month,  and  my 
uncle  Prokhov,  out  of  work,  was  begging  at  the  doors  for 
crusts.  'You,  uncle!  begging?'  says  I,  'you  ought  to  plough, 
or  chop  wood,  not  degrade  yourself  in  this  way.'  'I  am  off 
all  honest  work,'  says  he.  'I  don't  understand  it,  my  little 
Lipa.'  " 

By  a  small  aspen-grove  they  stood  still  to  rest  and  await 
Praskovya.  Yelizarov  had  for  many  years  been  a  contractor, 


THE  HOLLOW  151 

but  as  he  kept  no  horses,  he  went  through  the  whole  district 
on  foot,  carrying  a  small  sack  which  contained  bread  and 
onions.  He  strided  along  swinging  his  arms,  so  it  was  not 
easy  to  walk  alongside  of  him.  At  the  entrance  to  the  grove 
stood  a  marestone;  Yelizarov  tried  it  to  see  if  it  was  in  good 
repair.  Praskovya  reached  them  planting;  her  wrinkled  face, 
with  its  timorous  expression,  to-day  was  radiant:  she  had 
been  to  church  like  other  people,  and  had  gone  to  the  fair, 
where  they  had  drunk  pear-kvass!  This  was  so  rare  a  treat 
for  her,  that  it  seemed  to  her  that  she  was  living  in  joy  for 
the  first  time  in  her  life.  When  they  had  rested,  they  all 
three  proceeded  on  their  way  side  by  side.  The  sun  was  set 
ting  fast,  its  rays  penetrated  through  the  grove  and  threw 
light  on  the  stems  of  the  trees.  There  was  a  sound  of  voices 
in  front,  the  Ukleyevo  women  had  got  far  ahead,  but  had 
stopped  in  the  grove,  no  doubt  to  pick  mushrooms. 

"Hullo!  lassies!"  called  Yelizarov.    "Hullo!  beauties!" 

In  answer  there  came  laughter. 

"Here  is  the  Crutch !    The  Crutch !    Old  Grizzly ! " 

And  the  echo  also  laughed.  Soon  the  grove  was  behind 
them,  the  tops  of  the  factory  chimneys  appeared,  and  the 
cross  glittering  on  the  bell-tower.  This  was  the  village,  the 
very  same  village,  "where  the  Cantor  ate  all  the  caviar  at 
the  funeral."  They  are  very  near  home  now;  it  only  remains 
fc>  go  down  into  the  hollow.  Lipa  and  Praskovya,  who  were 
barefooted,  sat  down  on  the  grass  and  put  on  their  boots; 
the  contractor  sat  down  too.  When  you  looked  and  saw 
the  willows,  the  white  church,  and  the  river,  Ukleyevo  looked 
attractive  and  peaceful;  it  was  only  the  roofs  of  the  fac 
tories — painted  a  dark  colour  for  economy's  sake — that  were 
unsightly.  You  saw  the  rye  on  the  declivity  on  the  farther 
side,  and  here  and  there  ricks  and  sheaves  as  if  strewn  by  a 
storm,  and  some  new-mown  rye  lying  in  swaths;  and  the 
oats  too  were  ripe,  and  shone  in  the  sun  like  mother-of-pearl. 
It  was  harvest-time.  To-day  was  a  holiday,  to-morrow  was 
Saturday;  they  would  gather  in  the  rye,  carry  the  hay,  and 
then  it  was  Sunday,  again  a  holiday.  Every  day  there  was 


152  ROTHSCHILD'S  FIDDLE 

a  sound  of  distant  thunder;  it  was  steamy,  it  looked  like 
rain,  and  as  each  one  glanced  at  the  fields  their  thought  was: 
May  God  grant  us  time  to  gather  in  the  corn.  And  they 
were  cheerful  and  happy,  though  a  little  uneasy. 

"Mowers  are  expensive  now,"  said  Praskovya.  "One  ruble 
forty  a  day!" 

People  were  still  streaming  from  the  fair  at  Kazanskoe: 
women,  factory-hands  in  new  caps,  mendicants,  children. 
Then  a  cart  went  by  raising  a  cloud  of  dust,  behind  it  gal 
loped  an  unsold  horse,  as  if  rejoicing  in  the  fact;  then  some 
one  went  by  leading  a  stubborn  cow  by  the  horn ;  then  again 
a  cart,  bearing  drunken  peasants  who  were  hanging  their 
legs  over  the  side.  One  old  woman  was  leading  by  the  hand 
a  small  boy  in  a  large  cap  and  large  high-boots.  The  boy 
was  exhausted  by  the  heat,  and  his  heavy  boots  interfered 
with  the  flexion  of  his  knees,  nevertheless  he  continued  to 
blow  a  toy  trumpet  with  all  his  might.  They  had  already 
reached  the  bottom  of  the  hill  and  were  turning  into  the 
street,  and  still  the  toy  trumpet  could  be  heard. 

"And  our  factory-owners  are  not  quite  themselves,"  said 
Yelizarov.  "It's  unlucky!  Kostiukov  raged  at  me. — 'A 
great  number  of  planks  went  for  the  cornice,'  he  says.  'A 
great  number! ' — 'As  many  as  were  required,  Vasily  Danilych, 
and  no  more,'  I  say;  'I  don't  eat  planks  with  my  gruel.' — 
'How  dare  you,'  says  he,  'speak  to  me  like  that?  A  block 
head  like  you!  Don't  forget  I  made  you  contractor!'  he 
screams  at  me. — 'What  a  wonder!'  says  I.  'Still,  before  I 
was  a  contractor,  I  drank  tea  every  day.' — 'You  are  all 
rogues,'  says  he.  I  remained  silent.  We  may  be  rogues  in 
this  world,  but  you  will  be  rogues  in  the  next,  I  thought — 
ha — ha — ha!  The  next  day  he  thawed.  'Don't  be  angry 
with  me  for  what  I  said,  Makarych.  If  I  said  more  than 
was  necessary,  you  see  it  is  my  privilege ;  I  am  the  merchant 
of  a  more  ancient  guild  than  you — you  must  keep  silent.' — 
'You  are,'  I  say,  'the  merchant  of  a  more  ancient  guild  than 
I!  I  am  only  a  carpenter,  that's  true.  But  St.  Joseph  was 
a  carpenter.  Our  business  is  honourable  and  pleasing  to 


THE  HOLLOW  153 

God,  and  if  you  are  pleased  to  be  more  ancient,  then  be 
gracious  to  us,  Vasily  Danilych.'  Later  I  thought — that  is, 
after  this  conversation — like  this  I  thought:  What  is  more 
ancient?  The  merchant  of  an  ancient  guild,  or  a  carpenter? 
Maybe  the  carpenter,  my  children!" 

The  Crutch  became  thoughtful,  then  he  added:  "It  is  so, 
children.  Whosoever  suffers  and  labours,  he  is  the  most 
honourable." 

The  sun  had  set,  and  over  the  river,  and  around  the 
churchyard,  and  from  the  open  spaces  surrounding  the  fabrics 
rose  a  thick  mist  white  as  milk.  Then,  as  darkness  came  on 
apace,  one  by  one  the  lights  began  to  blink,  and  at  times  it 
seemed  as  if  the  mist  was  hovering  over  a  bottomless  abyss. 
It  seemed  to  Lipa  and  her  mother,  who  were  born  poor,  and 
were  prepared  to  live  so  to  the  end,  ready  to  surrender  to 
others  all  except  their  timid  gentle  souls,  that,  for  a  moment 
perhaps,  this  was  some  dream :  a  great  mysterious  world,  and 
they  stronger  and  older  than  anyone,  standing  in  one  of  the 
furthest  unlimited  ridges  of  life.  It  was  so  pleasant  up  here; 
they  smiled  a  happy  smile,  and  forgot  that  it  would  be 
necessary  to  return  below. 

At  last  they  reached  home.  There  were  mowers  sitting 
on  the  ground,  at  the  gate,  and  by  the  shop.  Usually,  those 
from  Ukleyevo  did  not  come  and  work  for  Tzybukin,  so  it 
was  necessary  to  hire  others,  and  it  looked  in  the  darkness 
as  if  they  were  people  with  long  black  beards.  The  shop 
was  still  open,  and  through  the  door  the  deaf  Stepan  was 
seen  playing  draughts  with  the  servant-boy.  Some  of  the 
mowers  were  softly  singing  under  their  breath,  others  were 
calling  loudly  for  their  wages,  without  obtaining  them,  as 
they  were  required  to  work  again  on  the  morrow.  Old  Tzy 
bukin,  in  shirt-sleeves,  was  drinking  tea  with  Aksinya  under 
the  birch  trees  by  the  door.  A  lamp  was  burning  on  the 
table. 

"Ga — after!"  the  mowers  called  from  the  gate  provokingly. 
"Pay  at  least  half !  Ga— affer ! " 


154  ROTHSCHILD'S  FIDDLE 

Again  there  was  a  sound  of  laughter,  then  once  more 
they  started  singing  under  their  breath. 

The  Crutch  also  sat  down  to  have  some  tea. 

"Well,  so  we  have  been  to  the  fair,"  he  began.  "We  had 
an  excellent  walk,  my  dears,  an  excellent  walk,  thank  the 
Lord.  But  an  unpleasant  incident  occurred.  Sasha,  the 
farrier,  buys  some  tobacco  and  gives  the  merchant  a  50- 
kopeck  piece.  The  money  was  false,"  continued  the  Crutch 
looking  round.  He  had  meant  to  whisper  it,  but  spoke  it  in 
a  strangulated  hoarse  voice  that  was  audible  to  everyone. 
"The  5o-kopeck  piece  turned  out  to  be  false.  They  ask, 
where  did  it  come  from?  This/  says  he,  'is  what  Anisim 
Tzybukin  gave  me  on  the  occasion  of  his  wedding.  .  .  .' 
They  called  for  the  sergeant;  he  came.  .  .  .  Now,  see,  Petro- 
vich,  whatever  happens  there  will  be  chatter.  ..." 

"Ga — affer!"  the  voices  provokingly  called  from  the  gate. 
«Ga— after!" 

There  was  silence. 

"Ah,  children,  children,  children,"  muttered  the  Crutch 
quickly,  as  he  rose  from  his  seat,  overcome  with  sleep. 
"Thank  you  for  the  tea  and  sugar.  It  is  time  to  rest;  I  am 
nothing  but  a  ruin,  my  girders  are  rotting  within  me.  Ha, 
ha,  ha!" 

And  as  he  left  he  gave  a  sob,  and  said:  "It  must  be  time 
to  die!" 

Old  Tzybukin  did  not  finish  his  tea;  he  sat  there  buried 
in  thought,  and  looked  as  if  he  was  listening  to  the  Crutch's 
footsteps,  who  was  by  now  far  down  the  street. 

"Sashka  the  farrier  lied,  that's  all,"  said  Aksinya,  guessing 
his  thoughts. 

He  went  into  the  house,  and  returned  shortly  afterwards 
with  a  packet;  he  opened  it,  and  displayed  the  glittering 
new  rubles.  He  took  one,  tried  it  on  his  teeth,  threw  it  on 
the  tray;  he  threw  another.  .  .  . 

"Beyond  doubt  these  rubles  are  false,"  he  said  incredu 
lously  to  Aksinya.  "Anisim  brought  these  same  ones  with 
him;  they  are  his  wedding-present.  Take  them,  my  daugh- 


THE  HOLLOW  155 

ter,"  he  whispered,  thrusting  the  packet  into  her  hand,  "take, 
and  throw  them  into  the  well.  The  devil  take  them!  And 
see  that  there  is  no  chatter.  Whatever  happens.  .  .  .  Clear 
away  the  samovar,  put  out  the  lights." 

As  Lipa  and  Praskovya  sat  in  the  shed,  they  saw  the  light: 
go  out  one  by  one;  only  upstairs  in  Varvara's  room  the  blue 
and  red  image-lamp  glimmered,  breathing  peace,  content 
ment,  and  nescience.  Praskovya  could  not  get  accustomed 
to  the  idea  that  her  daughter  had  married  into  a  rich  family, 
and  when  she  arrived  she  hung  timidly  about  the  vestibule, 
smiling  apologetically,  so  they  sent  her  away  with  some 
tea  and  sugar.  Lipa  could  not  get  accustomed  to  it  either, 
and  after  her  husband  had  left  she  did  not  sleep  in  a  bed, 
but  wherever  she  happened  to  be,  in  the  kitchen  or  the  shed. 
She  washed  the  floors,  or  did  the  ironing,  which  all  seemed 
to  her  the  same  as  when  she  was  a  day-worker.  So  now, 
after  their  return  from  the  pilgrimage,  they  drank  tea  in 
the  kitchen  with  the  cook,  then  went  out  into  the  shed  and 
lay  against  the  wall  between  the  sleighs.  It  was  very  dark, 
and  smelt  of  harness.  All  the  lights  were  out,  the  deaf  one 
was  heard  closing  the  shop,  and  the  mowers  settling  them 
selves  in  the  yard  for  the  night.  Far  away  at  the  Junior 
Khrymins  they  were  playing  the  expensive  harmonium.  .  .  . 
Praskovya  and  Lipa  fell  asleep. 

They  were  awakened  by  some  footsteps;  the  moon  was 
shining  brightly,  and  at  the  entrance  to  the  shed  stood  Aks- 
inya  with  some  bedding  in  her  arms. 

"It  may  be  cooler  here,"  she  said,  and  entering  lay  down 
at  the  very  threshold  with  the  moon  shining  full  on  her.  She 
did  not  sleep,  she  sighed  deeply,  tossed  and  flung  nearly  all 
her  clothing  off;  by  the  magic  light  of  the  moon  what  a 
beautiful,  what  a  proud  creature  she  looked!  Some  time 
went  by,  and  again  steps  were  heard;  then  the  old  man, 
very  pale,  stood  in  the  doorway. 

"Aksinya,"  he  called,  "are  you  here?    What?" 

"Well?"  she  answered  wrathfully. 


156  ROTHSCHILD'S  FIDDLE 

"I  told  you  just  now  to  throw  the  money  into  the  well. 
Have  you  done  it?" 

"Anything  else!  Throw  riches  in  the  water!  I  paid  some 
of  the  mowers.  ..." 

"My  God!"  said  the  old  man  in  astonishment  and  fear. 
"Shameless  woman!  Oh,  my  God!" 

He  wrung  his  hands  and  went  out,  and  as  he  went  he  mut 
tered  to  himself.  A  little  later  Aksinya  sat  up,  heaved  a  deep 
sigh  of  dissatisfaction,  arose,  gathered  up  her  bedding  in  her 
arms,  and  went  out. 

"Why  did  you  marry  me  here,  mother  dear?"  asked  Lipa. 

"Marriage  is  a  necessity,  my  child,  and  so  not  in  our 
control." 

And  the  consciousness  of  an  inconsolable  affliction  was 
about  to  overwhelm  them.  Then  they  felt  as  if  Someone 
was  looking  down  from  heaven,  those  great  blue  heights  from 
whence  the  stars  keep  watch  and  see  all  that  is  going  on 
in  Ukleyevo.  And,  however  great  be  Evil,  wondrous  and 
peaceful  is  the  night,  and  in  God's  kingdom  Good  reigns, 
and  will  ever  reign  peaceful  and  wondrous;  for  on  earth  all 
is  waiting  to  emerge  into  right,  just  as  the  light  of  the  moon 
emerges  from  the  night. 

They  both  felt  comforted,  and,  leaning  one  against  the 
other,  they  fell  asleep. 

VI 

The  news  had  spread  some  time  that  Anisim  had  been 
arrested  for  coming  and  circulating  counterfeit  money. 
Months  went  by,  some  six  months,  the  long  winter  was  over, 
spring  had  come,  and  the  inhabitants  of  his  home  and  the 
village  had  become  accustomed  to  the  idea  that  Anisim  was 
sitting  in  prison.  When  anyone  passed  the  house  at  night 
they  remembered  that  Anisim  was  sitting  in  prison;  when 
the  church-bells  tolled  for  some  reason  or  other,  they  again 
remembered  that  Anisim  was  sitting  in  prison  and  awaiting 
his  sentence. 


THE  HOLLOW  157 

It  seemed  as  if  a  shadow  lay  over  the  place.  The  house 
darkened,  the  roof  grew  rusty,  the  door  of  the  shop,  once 
painted  green  and  heavily  bound  in  iron,  looked,  as  deaf 
Stepan  himself  said,  "like  the  disused  door  of  a  ruin."  Old 
Tzybukin  was  a  sorry  sight,  his  hair  and  his  beard  grew 
untended,  he  seated  himself  heavily  in  the  tarantass,  he  no 
longer  shouted  to  the  beggars:  "God  will  help  you!"  His 
strength  declined  visibly;  people  were  already  less  afraid 
of  him,  and  the  sergeant  drew  up  an  official  report  about  the 
shop,  but  as  heretofore  he  continued  to  receive  the  things 
he  required.  Tzybukin  was  summoned  three  times  to  the 
town,  to  be  tried  on  charges  of  contraband  dealing  in  wine, 
and  each  time  the  case  was  deferred  on  account  of  the  non- 
appearance  of  witnesses.  So  the  old  man  was  worn  out. 
He  frequently  went  to  see  his  son;  engaged  someone  for 
something,  forwarded  petitions  to  someone  or  other,  offered 
a  banner  somewhere.  He  presented  to  the  inspector  of  the 
prison  in  which  Anisim  was  detained  a  silver  plate  with  the 
insciption  in  enamel,  "The  heart  knows  no  measure,"  and  a 
long  spoon  accompanied  this  present. 

"But  make  a  stir — is  there  no  one  to  make  a  stir?"  asked 
Varvara.  "Oh,  fie  upon  it!  You  should  ask  one  of  the 
gentlemen ;  they  might  write  to  the  commander-in-chief .  .  .  . 
If  only  they  would  release  him  till  the  trial.  The  poor 
lad  will  be  ill  in  prison." 

She  was  much  concerned  about  it,  but  at  the  same  time 
was  growing  stouter  and  paler.  As  heretofore,  she  trimmed 
the  image-lamps,  saw  that  the  house  was  kept  clean  and 
tidy,  regaled  the  guests  with  jam  and  apple-pasty.  The  deaf 
one  and  Aksinya  attended  to  the  business.  They  had 
started  a  new  work,  a  brick-kiln  at  Butiokino,  whither 
Aksinya  drove  every  day  in  the  tarantass.  She  drove  her 
self,  and  on  meeting  any  acquaintance  she  stretched  out  her 
neck  like  a  viper  in  unripe  rye,  and  smiled  naively  and 
enigmatically.  Lipa  was  always  playing  with  her  baby, 
which  was  born  just  before  Lent — such  a  small  wizened 
piteous  baby  that  it  was  even  strange  that  he  should  cry, 


158  ROTHSCHILD'S  FIDDLE 

look,  and  be  reckoned  a  human  being,  and  also  go  by  the 
name  of  Nikifor.  As  he  lay  in  his  cradle,  Lipa  would  go 
to  the  door,  and  call  out  to  him: 

"Good-day,  Nikifor  Anisimych!" 

Then  rush  headlong  back  and  kiss  him,  then  again  go  to 
the  door,  and  again  greet  him: 

"Good-day,  Nikifor  Anisimych!" 

He  would  kick  his  little  pink  legs  in  the  air,  and  laugh 
and  cry  at  the  same  moment,  like  the  carpenter  Yelizarov. 

At  last  the  date  of  the  trial  was  announced.  The  old  man 
left  five  days  before.  Then  it  became  known  that  people 
from  the  village  had  been  called  as  witnesses;  the  old  work 
men  went  too,  also  receiving  a  summons  to  appear.  The 
trial  was  on  Thursday.  Sunday  came,  and  the  old  man  did 
not  return,  nor  was  there  any  news.  On  Tuesday,  towards 
even  Varvara  sat  at  the  open  window  listening  for  the  old 
man.  In  the  next  room  Lipa  was  playing  with  her  baby, 
tossing  and  rocking  it,  and  saying  in  a  transport  of  joy: 

"He  will  grow  big — big.  He  will  be  a  muzhik,  and  we  will 
do  our  day's  work  together.  We  will  do  our  day's  work  to 
gether!" 

"Come  now!"  said  Varvara  offended.  "Why  do  you  talk 
of  day-work,  you  silly?  He  will  be  a  merchant." 

Lipa  began  singing  softly,  but  soon  afterwards  forgot, 
and  again  said: 

"He  will  grow  big — big,  he  will  be  a  muzhik,  and  we  will 
do  our  day-work  together." 

"Come  now!     You  repeat  it  too  often." 

Lipa,  with  Nikifor  in  her  arms,  came  to  the  doorway, 
and  asked: 

"Mamenka,  why  do  I  love  him  so?  Why  am  I  sorry 
for  him?"  she  continued  in  a  trembling  voice,  while  tears 
dimmed  her  eyes.  "Who  is  he?  What  is  he?  Light  as  a 
feather,  a  wee  little  thing,  yet  I  love  him,  love  him  just  like 
a  real  man.  He  can  do  nothing,  say  nothing,  yet  I  under 
stand  all  he  wants  by  his  little  eyes." 

Varvara  listened:  was  not  that  the  sound  of  the  evening 


THE  HOLLOW  159 

train  arriving  at  the  station?  Was  the  old  man  coming? 
She  no  longer  heard  or  understood  what  Lipa  was  saying, 
no  longer  knew  how  the  time  went  by;  she  was  trembling 
all  over,  not  from  fear  but  out  of  great  curiosity.  She  saw 
a  cart  full  of  peasants  dash  by  with  a  great  clatter;  they 
were  the  returning  witnesses.  As  the  telega  drove  by  the 
shop,  the  old  workman  jumped  out,  and  went  into  the  yard. 
She  heard  people  greeting  him,  and  asking  him  about  some 
thing. 

"Forfeiture  of  his  rights  and  estates,"  he  said  in  a  loud 
voice,  "and  Siberia  with  penal  servitude  for  six  years." 

Aksinya  emerged  from  the  darkness  of  the  shop,  from 
whence  she  had  just  despatched  some  kerosene;  she  still 
held  a  bottle  in  one  hand,  a  funnel  in  the  other,  and  a  piece 
of  silver  in  her  mouth. 

"And  where  is  papasha?"  she  lisped. 

"At  the  station,"  answered  the  workman.  "  'When  it  is 
darker,'  he  said,  'I  will  come  home.' ' 

When  it  became  known  in  the  yard  that  Anisim  was  sen 
tenced  to  penal  servitude,  the  cook,  in  the  kitchen,  set  up  a 
wailing  as  if  someone  were  dead,  thinking  the  occasion  re 
quired  it: 

"Why  did  you  leave  us,  Anisim  Grigoryich,  little  falcon 
dear?" 

The  dogs  barked  anxiously;  Varvara,  much  distressed, 
ran  to  the  window,  and  called  out  with  all  her  might  to 
the  cook: 

"Enough,  Stepanida,  enough!  Don't  be  in  despair,  for 
Christ's  sake!" 

They  forgot  to  bring  the  samovar;  no  one  could  think  of 
anything.  Lipa  alone  could  in  no  way  understand  what  was 
the  matter,  and  continued  to  play  with  her  baby. 

When  the  old  man  arrived  from  the  station,  no  one  asked 
him  any  questions;  he  greeted  them,  and  walked  through  all 
the  rooms  in  silence;  he  had  no  supper. 

"There  was  no  one  to  plead  for  him,"  began  Varvara 
when  they  were  alone.  "I — I  told  you  to  ask  one  of  the  gen- 


i6o  ROTHSCHILD'S  FIDDLE 

tlemen;  you  would  not  listen.  .  .  .  Perhaps  a  petition.  .  .  ." 

"I  did  petition,"  said  the  old  man,  with  a  wave  of  the 
hand.  "When  they  read  the  sentence  on  Anisim  I  was  with 
the  gentleman  who  defended  him:  'No  use,'  he  said,  'it  is 
too  late.'  And  Anisim  himself  said,  'It  is  too  late.'  All 
the  same,  as  I  left  the  court  I  spoke  to  an  advocate.  I 
gave  him  earnest-money.  ...  I  will  wait  a  little,  a  week, 
then  I'll  go  again.  God  have  mercy  on  us!" 

The  old  man  again  wandered  in  silence  through  the 
rooms;  when  he  returned  to  Varvara,  he  said: 

"I  can't  be  well.  My  head  feels  ...  in  a  fog.  My 
thoughts  are  in  a  muddle." 

He  closed  the  door  so  that  Lipa  should  not  hear,  and  con 
tinued  in  a  low  voice: 

"My  money  affairs  are  in  a  bad  way.  You  remember  be 
fore  the  wedding,  Anisim  brought  me  some  new  rubles  and 
half  rubles?  I  hid  one  packet,  the  rest  I  mixed  with  my 
own.  .  .  .  Formerly,  God  rest  his  soul,  when  my  grand 
father,  Dmitry  Filatych,  was  alive  he  used  often  to  go  on 
business  to  Moscow  or  the  Crimea.  He  had  a  wife:  this 
same  wife,  while  he  was  away  on  business,  used  to  run  riot. 
There  were  six  children.  Now  it  happened,  when  my  grand 
father  was  drunk,  he  would  joke  and  say:  'I  shall  never 
know  which  are  my  children  and  which  are  someone  else's?' 
A  cheerful  nature  his!  But  now  I  can't  make  out  which 
is  real  money  and  which  is  counterfeit,  it  seems  to  me  they 
are  all  false  coins." 

"Well,  I  never !     God  help  you ! " 

"When  I  take  a  ticket  at  the  station,  I  hand  three  rubles, 
then  I  think  to  myself:  Are  they  false?  And  I'm  fright 
ened.  I  can't  be  well." 

"They  say,  we  are  ail  in  God's  hands.  .  .  .  Oh,  dear! 
Oh  dear!"  said  Varvara,  shaking  her  head.  "We  ought  to 
remember,  too,  Petrovich.  .  .  .  Times  are  bad,  and  what 
ever  happens  you  are  no  longer  a  young  man.  You  will 
die;  then  see  to  it  that  they  do  not  wrong  your  grandson. 
Alas,  I  am  afraid  they  may  defraud  Nikifor;  they  will 


THE  HOLLOW  161 

surely.  His  father  one  may  say  no  longer  exists;  his 
mother  is  young  and  foolish.  If  you  left  him  a  bit  of  land, 
say  Butiokino,  for  the  boy.  Do  that,  Petrovich.  Think 
about  it,"  added  Varvara,  entreatingly.  "He  is  a  nice  little 
boy;  I  am  sorry  for  him.  Look,  go  to-morrow  and  sign  a 
paper.  What  use  waiting?" 

"I  forgot  about  the  grandson,"  said  Tzybukin.  "I  must 
go  and  see  him.  So  you  say  the  boy  is  all  right?  Well, 
may  he  grow  up,  God  grant  it!" 

He  opened  the  door,  and  beckoned  with  his  finger  to  Lipa. 
She  came  to  him  with  the  baby  in  her  arms. 

"Lipinka,  if  you  want  anything,  ask  for  it,"  he  said. 
"And  whatever  you  have  a  mind  for,  eat;  we  won't  com 
plain — only  keep  well.  ..."  He  made  the  sign  of  the 
Cross  over  the  child.  "And  take  care  of  the  grandson; 
though  my  son  is  not  here,  my  grandson  remains." 

Tears  rolled  down  his  cheeks;  he  gave  a  sob  and  went  out. 
A  little  while  afterwards  he  went  to  bed  and  slept  soundly, 
having  spent  seven  sleepless  nights. 

VII 

The  old  man  went  for  a  short  visit  to  town.  Some 
one  told  Aksinya  he  had  been  to  the  notary  to  make  a  will, 
in  which  he  bequeathed  Butiokino — that  Butiokino  where 
she  had  established  her  brick-kiln — to  his  grandson  Nikifor. 
They  communicated  this  to  her  one  morning,  as  Varvara 
and  the  old  man  were  sitting  under  the  birch  trees  by  the 
door  drinking  tea.  She  closed  the  door  of  the  shop  facing 
the  street  and  the  one  into  the  yard;  she  collected  all  the 
keys  she  had  ever  had,  and  flung  them  at  the  old  man's  feet. 

"I  shall  not  work  any  more  for  you!"  she  screamed, 
suddenly  beginning  to  sob.  "I  have  become  not  a  daughter- 
in-law  but  a  worker!  All  the  people  jeer;  'See,'  they  say, 
'what  a  good  worker  Tzybukin  has  found.'  I  am  not  in 
your  hire!  I  am  not  poor,  nor  a  serf,  I  have  a  father  and 
a  mother." 


1 62  ROTHSCHILD'S  FIDDLE 

Leaving  her  tears  unwiped,  she  turned  on  the  old  man 
her  overflowing  eyes  full  of  spite  and  distorted  with  anger; 
her  face  and  neck  were  crimson  and  all  the  muscles  strained, 
as  she  screamed  with  all  her  might: 

"I  won't  serve  you  any  more!  I  am  worn  out.  It's 
work  day  in  day  out,  sitting  in  the  shop,  smuggling  vodka 
at  night,  that's  what  I  have  to  do,  while  all  the  benefits  are 
for  the  convict's  wife  and  her  brat.  She  is  mistress  here 
and  gentlewoman,  and  I  am  her  servant!  Give  it  all  to 
the  prisoner's  wife  till  she  stifles,  I  am  going  home.  Find 
for  yourselves  another  fool — damned  Herods!" 

The  old  man  never  once  in  his  life  had  scolded  or  pun 
ished  his  children,  never  even  entertained  the  thought  that 
anyone  in  the  family  could  speak  rudely  to  him,  or  behave 
themselves  in  an  unseemly  mannr;  and  now  he  was  so 
frightened  that  he  ran  into  the  house  and  hid  himself 
behind  the  cupboard.  And  Varvara  was  so  panic-stricken 
that  she  could  not  get  up  from  seat,  and  waved  both  hands 
as  if  she  were  defending  herself  from  bees. 

"What's  the  meaning  of  this?  Batiushka! "  she  murmured 
in  horror.  "How  can  she  scream  like  that?  Oh,  fie  upon 
it!  The  people  will  hear!  Ai,  ai!  Softly,  softly!" 

"You  have  given  up  Butiokino  to  the  convict's  wife," 
Aksinya  continued  to  scream.  "Give  her  everything;  I 
want  nothing  from  you,  plague  you!  You  are  all  of  one 
gang.  I've  seen  enough  of  it,  it  will  do — you  rob  the  passer 
by,  the  traveller,  the  thief,  the  old,  the  young!  And  who 
sells  vodka  without  a  license?  And  circulates  false  coin! 
You  have  filled  a  chest  with  false  coins." 

By  the  wide  open  gates  a  crowd  had  already  assembled, 
and  were  looking  into  the  yard. 

"Let  them  all  look!"  screamed  Aksinya.  "I  disgrace  you, 
do  I?  You  blush  with  shame  for  me?  You  are  humbled 
by  my  conduct?  Hie,  Stepan,"  she  called  to  her  deaf  hus 
band.  "In  a  moment  we  will  be  off  home,  I  will  go  to  my 
father  and  mother,  I  won't  stay  any  longer  with  a  convict's 
people.  Be  quick!" 


THE  HOLLOW  163 

The  linen  was  hanging  in  the  yard,  she  wrenched  down 
her  own  skirt  and  camisole,  which  were  still  wet,  and  flung 
them  into  the  deaf  one's  arms;  throwing  herself  in  a  frenzy 
on  the  linen  which  was  not  hers,  she  tore  it  down,  flung  it 
on  the  ground,  and  trampled  on  it. 

"Ai,  ai!  Batiushka!  stop  her,"  moaned  Varvara. 
"What's  all  this?  Let  her  have  Butiokino,  let  her  have 
it,  for  Christ's  sake!" 

"What  a  woman!"  they  said  at  the  gate.  "Wha — at  a 
woman!  She  has  lost  her  senses." 

Aksinya  rushed  into  the  kitchen  where  the  washing  was 
being  done.  Lipa  was  washing,  while  the  cook  had  gone 
to  the  brook  to  rinse  some  of  the  linen.  The  cauldron  was 
steaming  on  the  stove,  the  trough  was  also  steaming,  and  the 
kitchen  itself  was  full  of  steam.  On  the  floor  lay  a  heap  of 
unwashed  linen,  and  by  it,  on  a  seat,  so  that  if  he  fell  he 
would  not  hurt  himself,  stretching  his  pink  legs,  lay  Nikifor. 
Just  as  Aksinya  entered  Lipa  had  taken  her  chemise  out 
of  the  heap,  put  it  in  the  trough,  and  had  already  stretched 
out  her  hand  for  the  large  scoop  full  of  boiling  water  which 
stood  on  the  table. 

"Give  it  here,"  said  Aksinya,  looking  at  her  with  a  look 
of  hatred,  and  taking  the  chemise  out  of  the  trough.  "It 
is  not  your  business  to  touch  my  linen,  you  are  a  convict's 
wife,  and  it  behoves  you  to  know  your  place!" 

Lipa  looked  at  her  panic-stricken,  without  understand 
ing  what  she  meant,  then  caught  the  look  which  she  threw 
at  the  child,  suddenly  understood,  and  turned  into  stone. 

"You  have  taken  my  land — that's  for  you!" 

Saying  which,  Aksinya  seized  the  scoop  with  the  boiling 
water  and  dashed  it  over  Nikifor. 

Then  was  heard  a  scream  such  as  never  before  had  been 
heard  in  Ukleyevo;  no  one  thought  a  small  weak  creature 
like  Lipa  could  have  uttered  such  a  scream.  A  silence 
fell  over  the  yard.  Aksinya  returned  into  the  house  without 
a  word,  smiling  naively  as  heretofore.  The  deaf  one 
walked  about  the  yard  for  some  time  holding  the  linen  in 


1 64  ROTHSCHILD'S  FIDDLE 

his  arms,  then  without  haste  began  hanging  it  up  again. 
Until  the  cook  cams  back  from  the  brook,  no  one  could 
make  up  their  mind  to  go  into  the  kitchen  and  find  out 
what  had  happened. 

VIII 

They  carried  Nikifor  to  the  local  hospital,  where  at 
evening  he  died.  Lipa  did  not  wait  till  they  came  to 
fetch  her,  but  wrapped  the  little  dead  body  in  a  blanket,  and 
carried  it  away.  The  hospital  was  quite  new,  having  only 
been  recently  built;  it  had  large  windows,  and  stood  on  a 
hill;  the  glow  of  the  setting  sun  on  the  glass  almost  gave  it 
the  appearance  of  being  on  fire.  Below  the  hospital  was 
a  small  village.  Lipa  came  down  the  road  before  leaving 
the  village,  and  sat  down  by  its  pond.  Some  woman  or 
other  brought  a  horse  to  drink;  the  horse  refused  to  drink. 

"What  more  do  you  want?"  said  the  woman,  softly  and 
perplexed.  "What  is  the  matter  with  you?" 

A  boy  in  a  red  shirt  sat  by  the  water  cleaning  his  father's 
boots.  Not  another  soul  was  to  be  seen  in  the  village  or  on 
the  hill. 

"It  won't  drink  .  .  ."  said  Lipa,  looking  at  the  horse. 

Then  the  woman  and  the  boy  went  away,  and  there  was 
no  one  to  be  seen.  The  sun  set  under  a  brocade  of  purple 
and  gold,  while  long  red  and  lilac  clouds,  stretching  over  all 
the  sky,  kept  watch  over  him.  Somewhere  in  the  distance 
a  bittern  made  a  doleful  and  bellowing  noise,  just  like  a  cow 
confined  to  its  shed.  The  cry  of  this  mysterious  bird  was 
heard  every  spring,  but  no  one  knew  what  kind  of  a  bird 
it  was,  nor  where  it  lived.  Above  the  hospital,  by  the  pond, 
in  the  bushes,  behind  the  village,  and  all  around  in  the  fields, 
the  nightingales  were  singing  and  trilling.  The  cuckoo  was 
counting  some  one's  age,  was  always  getting  mixed  in  the 
reckoning,  and  began  again.  The  frogs,  bursting  with  anger, 
were  calling  to  one  another,  and  you  could  distinctly  hear 
the  words:  "e — te — takova,  e — te — takova"  (and  you  also! 


THE  HOLLOW  165 

and  you  also!)  What  a  noise  there  was!  It  seemed  as  if 
all  these  creatures  were  crying  and  singing  on  purpose,  so 
that  no  one  should  sleep  this  spring  night;  so  that  everyone, 
even  the  angry  frogs,  should  appreciate  and  enjoy  every 
minute  of  it;  for  we  only  live  once! 

Lipa  did  not  remember  how  long  she  had  sat  by  the 
pond,  but  when  she  arose  the  silver  crescent  of  the  moon 
was  shining  in  the  sky,  as  well  as  a  great  number  of  stars. 
All  in  the  village  slept,  and  there  was  not  one  light  anywhere. 
It  was  twelve  versts  home,  but  she  did  not  think  of  her 
strength,  nor  whither  she  went;  the  moon  shone  sometimes 
in  front  of  her,  sometimes  to  the  right,  the  same  cuckoo 
cried  in  a  hoarse-growing  voice  and  with  a  seemingly  derisive 
laugh:  See,  where  are  you  going? 

Lipa  walked  so  fast  that  she  lost  her  head-kerchief.  She 
looked  at  the  sky,  and  thought.  Where  was  her  little  boy's 
soul,  was  it  following  her,  or  was  it  up  above  among  the 
stars,  and  no  longer  thinking  of  his  mother?  Oh !  how  lonely 
to  be  in  the  fields  at  night,  in  the  midst  of  these  songs  when 
you  yourself  could  not  sing,  in  the  midst  of  these  incessant 
cries  of  joy  when  you  yourself  could  not  rejoice;  when  the 
stars  were  watching  in  the  skies,  also  lonely  and  indifferent 
as  to  whether  it  was  spring  or  winter,  as  to  whether  people 
were  alive  or  dead.  When  your  soul  is  oppressed  with 
grief,  it  is  worse  to  be  alone.  If  only  her  mother  were  with 
her,  the  Crutch,  or  the  cook,  or  at  least  a  muzhik. 

"Boo— oo,"  cried  the  bittern.     aBoo— oo." 

Then,  suddenly,  a  human  voice  it  was  that  said  distinctly: 
"Yoke  them,  Vavila." 

A  few  paces  in  front,  by  the  side  of  the  road,  a  wood-fire 
was  burning — that  is  to  say,  the  red  embers  were  glowing, 
there  were  flames.  Some  horses  seemed  to  be  munching; 
the  outline  of  two  carts  could  be  discerned  in  the  darkness; 
on  one  cart  was  a  barrel,  on  the  other  some  sacks,  and  by 
the  carts  were  two  men.  One  man  was  just  putting  a  horse 
to,  the  other  was  standing  motionless  by  the  fire  with  his 
hands  behind  his  back.  Some  dogs  began  to  growl  by  the 


1 66  ROTHSCHILD'S  FIDDLE 

side  of  the  carts.     He  who  led  the  horse  stopped,  and  said: 

"It  sounds  as  if  someone  were  on  the  road." 

"Sharik,  be  quiet,"  called  the  other  to  the  dog. 

By  his  voice  you  could  tell  the  other  was  an  old  man. 
Lipa  stayed  her  steps,  and  said:  "God  is  our  help!" 

The  old  man  went  up  to  her,  and  said  to  her  after  a  pause: 

"Good  even!" 

"Your  dog  won't  bite,  gaffer?" 

"No,  it's  all  right,  he  won't  hurt." 

"I  have  come  from  the  hospital,"  said  Lipa,  after  a 
moment's  silence.  "My  little  boy  died  there.  See,  I  am 
taking  him  home." 

The  old  man  must  have  heard  this  with  displeasure,  for 
he  moved  away,  and  replied  hurriedly: 

"That's  all  right,  my  dear.  God's  will  be  done!  Lad, 
you  are  dawdling,"  he  said,  turning  to  his  fellow-traveller. 
"You  might  hurry!" 

"Can't  find  the  shaft-bow,"  said  the  lad.  "Have  you 
seen  it?" 

"You  arrant  Vavila!" 

The  old  man  took  the  brand  from  the  fire,  blew  on  it,  thus 
lighting  up  his  own  face;  then,  when  they  had  found  the 
shaft  bow,  he  turned  the  light  on  Lipa.  He  looked  at  her, 
and  his  look  was  full  of  compassion  and  tenderness. 

"You  are  a  mother,"  he  said —  "every  mother  grieves  for 
her  child." 

After  that  he  sighed  and  shook  his  head.  Vavila  threw 
something  on  the  fire,  stamped  it  out,  and  darkness  reigned. 
The  visions  disappeared  and  as  a  little  while  before  there 
were  only  the  fields  and  the  star-filled  sky,  the  sound  of 
birds  interfering  with  each  other's  sleep,  and  there  where 
there  had  been  a  fire  a  corn-crake  seemed  to  be  twittering. 

After  a  moment's  darkness  the  carts,  the  old  man,  arH 
the  Lanky  Vavila  became  visible  again;  soon  the  teler- 
started  forward  with  a  screech. 

"Are  you  saints?"  Lipa  asked  the  old  man. 

"No,  we  are  from 


THE  HOLLOW  167 

"The  way  you  looked  at  me  just  now  touched  my  heart, 
The  lad  too  is  gentle.  I  thought,  'they  must  be  saints.'  " 

"Have  you  far  to  go?" 

"To  Ukleyevo." 

"Seat  yourself;  we  will  take  you  to  Kuzmenok.  Then 
you  go  to  the  right  and  we  go  to  the  left." 

Vavila  got  into  the  cart  with  the  barrel,  the  old  man 
and  Lipa  got  into  the  other.  They  proceeded  at  a  foot's 
pace  with  Vavila  leading. 

"My  little  son  was  in  pain  all  day,"  said  Lipa.  "He 
looked  at  me  with  his  little  eyes  and  made  no  sound;  he 
wanted  to  speak  and  could  not.  Father  in  Heaven  have 
mercy  on  his  soul!  I  fell  to  the  floor  in  my  anguish,  I 
stood  up,  and  fell  by  the  bedside.  Tell  me,  gaffer,  why  does 
a  child  suffer  before  death?  When  a  man  suffers,  or  a 
muzhik,  or  a  woman,  it  is  for  the  remittance  of  their  sins, 
but  a  child,  when  it  has  no  sin?  Why?" 

"Who  can  tell?"  answered  the  old  man. 

They  continued  their  way  for  half  an  hour  in  silence. 

"It  is  impossible  to  know  everything,  the  why,  the 
wherefore."  said  the  old  man.  "Birds  are  given  two  wings, 
not  four,  because  it  is  more  convenient  to  fly  with  two;  so 
it  is  with  man  to  know,  not  everything,  but  a  half  or  even 
a  quarter.  Just  so  much  as  is  necessary  for  him  to  live, 
that  much  he  knows." 

"Gaffer,  I  would  find  it  easier  to  walk,  for  my  heart  feels 
like  breaking." 

"No,  no,  sit  down." 

The  old  man  yawned  and  made  the  sign  of  the  Cross 
over  his  mouth : 

"Nichevo,"  he  repeated,  "your  grief  is  a  great  grief,  but 
life  is  long,  and  there  will  be  more  good  and  more  bad,  there 
will  be  all  sorts.  Great  is  our  Mother  Russia!"  he  said, 
glancing  on  both  sides  of  the  road.  "I  have  been  all  over 
Russia,  and  see  everything  therein,  and  believe  my  words, 
my  dear:  there  will  be  good  and  there  will  be  bad.  I  have 
tramped  through  Siberia,  and  to  the  region  of  the  Amoor, 


i68  ROTHSCHILD'S  FIDDLE 

and  to  Altai,  and  settled  in  Siberia,  tilled  the  ground,  then 
grew  a  longing  for  Mother  Russia,  and  back  I  came  to  my 
native  village.  Back  I  came  to  Russia  on  foot,  and  I 
remember,  as  we  were  on  the  ferry-boat,  I,  a  bag  of  bones, 
in  rags,  barefooted,  starving,  sucking  a  crust,  a  passing 
gentleman  comes  on  board — may  God  give  his  soul  peace 
when  a  dies — and  he  looks  at  me  pityingly,  with  tears  in 
his  eyes:  Toor  fellow/  says  he,  'you  eat  black  bread  and 
see  but  dark  days.  .  .  .  '  I  came  back,  without  a  peg  to 
call  my  own;  I  had  a  wife,  she  stayed  in  Siberia,  we  buried 
her  there.  So  I  lived  as  best  I  could.  Well,  I  tell  you 
there  was  good  and  bad.  I  have  no  wish  to  die,  I  could 
live  another  twenty  years — that  means,  there  has  been  more 
good  than  bad.  And  great  is  our  Mother  Russia!"  he 
said  again,  taking  a  look  on  both  sides  of  the  road. 

"Gaffer,"  asked  Lipa,  "when  a  man  dies,  how  many  days 
after  does  his  soul  remain  on  earth?" 

"Ah,  who  can  tell?  Here,  we  will  ask  Vavila;  he  has 
been  to  school.  They  teach  them  everything  now.  Vavila!" 
called  the  old  man. 

"Eh?" 

"Vavila,  when  a  man  dies,  how  many  days  after  does 
his  soul  remain  on  earth?" 

Vavila  stopped  his  horse,  and  answered  at  once: 

"Nine  days.  My  grandfather  Cyril  died,  his  soul  stayed 
in  our  cottage  thirteen  days." 

"How  do  you  know?" 

"There  was  a  knocking  in  the  stove  for  thirteen  days." 

"All  right.  Go  on,"  said  the  old  man;  he  evidently  did 
not  believe  a  word  of  it. 

At  Kuzmenok  the  carts  turned  on  to  the  chaussee,  and 
Lipa  went  her  way.  It  was  dawn,  yet  when  she  descended 
into  the  hollow  the  huts  and  church  of  Ukleyevo  were  hidden 
in  mist.  It  was  cold,  and  it  seemed  to  her  that  the  same 
cuckoo  was  calling.  When  Lipa  reached  the  house  every 
one  was  still  sleeping,  and  the  cattle  had  not  been  taken 
out  to  graze.  She  sat  on  the  doorstep  and  waited.  The  old 


THE  HOLLOW  169 

man  was  the  first  to  come  out;  he  at  once,  at  a  glance, 
understood  what  had  happened,  and  for  a  long  while  was 
unable  to  utter  a  word,  he  only  moved  his  lips. 

"Alas,  Lipa,"  he  said,  "you  have  not  kept  the  grand 
son.  ..." 

They  awoke  Varvara,  who  wrung  her  hands,  wept,  and 
at  once  began  to  arrange  the  baby  for  burial. 

"It  was  a  nice  little  child.  Alas,  alas!"  she  added,  "he 
was  the  only  boy,  and  she  did  not  keep  him,  dear  oh  dear!" 

There  was  a  requiem  for  him  in  the  morning  and  in  the 
evening;  the  next  day  they  buried  him.  After  the  burial 
the  guests  and  the  clergy  ate  a  great  deal,  just  as  if  they 
had  not  eaten  for  a  long  while.  Lipa  served  the  guests, 
and  the  priest  raising  his  fork  on  which  he  held  a  piece 
of  salted  orange-agaric,  said  to  her: 

"Don't  fret  for  the  child.  Of  such  are  the  Kingdom  of 
Heaven." 

It  was  only  when  everyone  had  dispersed  that  Lipa  real 
ised  what  had  happened;  that  Nikifor  was  no  more,  nor 
would  be  again;  she  understood  and  wept.  She  did  not 
know  in  which  room  to  retire  and  weep,  as  she  felt  now 
after  the  death  of  her  child  there  was  no  longer  any  place 
for  her  in  the  house;  she  was  superfluous,  and  the  others 
also  felt  it. 

"Here,  what  is  this  noise  you  are  making?"  suddenly 
Aksinya  called  out,  appearing  in  the  doorway.  At  the 
funeral  she  had  worn  new  black  clothes,  and  was  powdered. 
"Be  quiet!" 

Lipa  tried  to  stop,  but  being  unable  to  she  only  sobbed 
the  louder. 

"Do  you  hear?"  cried  Aksinya  as  she  stamped  with  rage. 
"To  whom  am  I  speaking?  Out  you  go  in  the  yard,  and 
don't  put  foot  inside  here  again,  convict's  wife!  Off  with 
you!" 

"Now,  now,"  rather  anxiously  said  old  Tzybukin.  "Ak- 
siuta,  mutashka,  be  calm.  .  .  .  She  is  weeping,  quite  natu 
rally  ...  her  baby  has  died.  ..." 


170  ROTHSCHILD'S  FIDDLE 

"Quite  naturally  ..."  mocked  Aksinya.  "Let  her  stay 
the  night,  and  to-morrow,  may  no  trace  of  her  remain. 
Quite  naturally!"  she  mocked  again,  and  with  a  laugh  di 
rected  her  steps  towards  the  shop. 

Next  day,  early  in  the  morning,  Lipa  retired  to  Torguevo 
to  her  mother. 

DC 

In  the  course  of  time,  the  roof  and  the  door  of  the  shop 
were  repainted  and  looked  like  new;  geraniums  flowered 
as  before  in  the  window-sills;  and  all  that  which  had  hap 
pened  three  years  ago  in  the  house  of  Tzybukin  was  almost 
forgotten. 

Then,  and  now,  Grigory  Petrovich  is  reckoned  the  mas 
ter,  but  in  reality  everything  is  in  the  hands  of  Aksinya; 
she  sells  and  buys,  nothing  is  done  without  her  consent. 
The  brick-kiln  is  working  well;  and  since  the  railway  has 
required  bricks,  the  price  has  gone  up  to  twenty-four  rubles 
a  thousand;  women  and  girls  carry  the  bricks  to  the  station, 
and  load  wagons,  for  which  employment  they  receive  a 
quarter  ruble  (25  kopecks)  a  day. 

Aksinya  has  shares  in  the  business  with  the  Khrymins, 
and  it  is  called  "Khrymin  Junior  &  Co."  They  opened  an 
Inn  by  the  station;  and  it  is  there  they  now  play  the  expen 
sive  harmonium.  The  post-master  and  the  station-master 
rf  ten  frequent  the  inn ;  they  also  are  doing  a  bit  of  business. 
Khrymin  Junior  has  given  a  gold  watch  to  deaf  Stepan, 
which  every  now  and  again  he  extracts  from  his  pocket  and 
puts  to  his  ear. 

In  the  village  they  say  Aksinya  has  acquired  fresh  vigour; 
and  verily  if  you  saw  her  as  she  drives  to  the  brick-kiln 
in  the  morning,  with  the  usual  smile  on  her  face,  looking 
handsome  and  happy,  and  if  you  saw  her  as  she  attended 
to  business  at  the  kiln,  you  would  feel  she  had  indeed  a 
great  vitality.  They  are  all  afraid  of  her  in  the  house,  in 
the  village,  at  the  kiln.  When  she  arrives  at  the  post' 
office,  the  post-master  jumps  up  and  says  to  her: 


THE  HULLOW  171 

"Pray,  pray  take  a  seat,  Aksinya  Abramovna." 

There  was  one  middle-aged  landlord,  a  swell,  who  wore 
a  sleeveless  coat  of  fine  cloth  and  high-polished  boots,  who 
sold  horses  to  her  and  was  so  captivated  by  her  conversation 
that  he  conceded  to  her  all  she  wished,  held  her  hand  in  his 
for  quite  a  while,  and  gazing  into  her  bright,  cunning,  naive 
eyes,  said: 

"For  a  woman  like  you,  Aksinya  Abramovna,  I  am  pre 
pared  to  render  any  service.  Only  tell  me,  when  can  we 
meet  alone,  without  interference?" 

"Oh,  whenever  you  like." 

So  now,  the  middle-aged  swell  comes  nearly  every  day  to 
the  shop  to  drink  beer.  The  beer  is  frightfully  bitter,  like 
wormwood,  the  landowner  screws  up  his  face  but  drinks  it. 

Old  Tzybukin  no  longer  interferes  with  the  business 
He  does  not  even  keep  the  money.  He  does  not  mention 
the  fact,  but  he  cannot  be  sure  which  is  the  true  and  which 
is  the  false  coin;  he  speaks  to  no  one  of  this  failing.  He 
has  grown  very  forgetful,  and  if  he  is  not  given  food  he 
does  not  ask  for  it;  they  are  quite  accustomed  to  dine 
without  him,  and  Varvara  often  says: 

"Our  old  man  went  to  bed  again  last  night  without 
food."  This  she  says  quite  calmly  for  they  are  used  to  it. 
In  summer  or  winter  he  walks  about  in  a  thick  fur-lined 
pelisse.  But  in  the  very  hot  weather  he  stays  at  home. 
He  usually  puts  on  his  pelisse,  turns  up  the  collar,  wraps 
the  cloak  round  him,  and  walks  about  the  country  or 
along  the  road  to  the  station,  or  sits  from  morning  to 
evening  on  the  bench  by  the  church  gates.  Here  he  sits  mo 
tionless;  passers-by  greet  him,  he  does  not  answer;  as  ever 
he  dislikes  the  muzhik.  If  he  is  asked  any  question  he 
answers  quite  sensibly  and  civilly,  although  briefly. 

In  the  village  gossip  has  it,  that  his  daughter-in-law  has 
driven  him  out  of  his  own  home  and  does  not  allow  him 
anything  to  eat,  that  he  is  supported  by  the  charity  of 
others;  some  people  rejoice  at  this,  others  pity  him. 

Varvara  has  grown  still  stouter  and  paler  and  continues 


172  ROTHSCHILD'S  FIDDLE 

her  good  works,  which  Aksinya  does  not  interfere  with. 
There  is  so  much  jam  now  that  they  do  not  manage  to  eat 
it  all  before  the  fresh  lot  comes;  it  candies,  and  Varvara 
not  knowing  v/hat  to  do  with  it  almost  weeps. 

They  were  beginning  to  forget  Anisim,  when  one  day  a 
letter  came  from  him  written  in  verse  on  a  large  sheet  of 
paper  looking  like  a  petition,  and  in  the  same  wonderful 
handwriting  as  before.  Apparently  his  friend  Samorodov 
was  also  wiping  out  his  offences  in  prison.  Below  the  verses, 
written  in  an  ugly,  hardly  decipherable  handwriting  was  one 
sentence:  "I  am  ill,  wretched;  send  help  for  Christ's  sake." 

One  day — it  was  a  bright  autumn  day,  towards  evening — 
old  Tzybukin  sat  by  the  church  gates  with  the  collar  of  his 
pelisse  turned  up,  so  that  all  that  was  visible  was  his  nose 
and  the  visor  of  his  cap.  At  the  other  end  of  the  long  bench 
sat  Yelizarov,  and  by  his  side  sat  the  school-factotum,  Yakov, 
an  old  toothless  septuagenarian.  The  Crutch  and  the  fac 
totum  were  talking. 

"Young  people  should  support  the  aged;  honour  their 
father  and  mother."  Yakov  spoke  irascibly.  "And  this 
here  daughter-in-law  has  driven  her  father-in-law  out  of  his 
own  house.  The  old  man  has  neither  eaten  nor  drunk  for 
three  days.  What  will  happen  to  him?" 

"For  three  days?"  said  the  Crutch  in  astonishment. 

"There  he  sits  without  opening  his  mouth;  he  has  grown 
very  weak.  Why  remain  silent?  He  ought  to  complain 
in  court — she  would  not  be  exonerated." 

"Who  was  exonerated  in  court?"  asked  the  Crutch,  not 
listening. 

"What  for?" 

"The  woman  is  all  right,  she  is  energetic;  it  is  impossible 
to  carry  on  their  business  without,  .  .  .  well,  without  fraud." 

"From  his  own  house,"  continued  Yakov  irascibly.  "To 
make  a  home  and  then  be  driven  out,  just  think  what  ado! 
Plague  on  it!" 

Tzybukin  listened  without  moving. 

"Your  own  house  or  someone  else's,  it  is  all  the  same 


THE  HOLLOW  173 

provided  it  is  warm  and  the  women  don't  get  angry,"  said 
the  Crutch  with  a  smile.  "When  I  was  young  I  very 
much  regretted  my  Nastasya;  she  was  so  gentle  and  it  was 
always:  'Makarych,  buy  a  house;  Makarych,  buy  a  horse.' 
And  as  she  was  dying  she  still  said:  ' Makarych,  buy  yourself 
a  little  droshky,  so  as  you  do  not  have  to  walk.'  And  the 
only  thing  I  ever  bought  her  was  some  gingerbread." 

"The  husband  is  deaf  and  stupid,"  continued  Yakov,  not 
listening  to  the  Crutch.  "Such  a  fool,  that  he  is  no  better 
than  a  goose.  Can  he  understand  anything?  Strike  a 
goose  on  the  head  with  a  stick  it  won't  understand 
either." 

The  Crutch  arose  to  return  to  the  factory,  Yakov  also  got 
up,  and  they  both  left  still  talking.  When  they  had  gone 
about  fifteen  steps  away,  old  Tzibukin  also  rose  and  with 
uncertain  tread,  as  if  he  were  on  slippery  ice,  followed  them. 
The  light  of  evening  was  descending  on  the  village;  the  last 
rays  of  the  sun  still  shone  on  the  road  above;  an  old  woman 
and  some  children  were  returning  from  the  woods  carrying 
baskets  of  yellow  and  brown  mushrooms.  There  were  crowds 
of  women  and  girls  going  to  the  station  with  bricks;  all  of 
them  had  their  noses  and  cheeks  covered  in  thick  red  brick- 
dust,  and  they  sang  as  they  went.  In  front  walked  Lipa, 
singing  at  the  top  of  her  high-pitched  voice,  looking  up 
at  the  sky  with  a  look  of  rapture  and  triumph,  that  the  day, 
thank  God,  was  over  and  they  were  going  to  rest.  Her 
mother,  Praskovya,  was  also  in  the  crowd;  she  was  carrying 
a  small  bundle  and  was  out  of  breath. 

"Good  even,  Makarych,"  said  Lipa,  catching  sight  of  the 
Crutch.  "Good  evening,  my  dove! " 

"Good  even,  Lipynka,"  said  the  Crutch,  pleased  to  see  her. 
"Women,  girls,  be  fond  of  the  rich  carpenter!  Ha,  ha! 
My  children,  my  children" — the  Crutch  heaved  a  sigh — 
"my  little  dears." 

The  Crutch  and  Yakov  passed  on,  still  talking.  Then  the 
crowd  met  old  Tzybukin,  and  there  was  a  sudden  silence. 
Lipa  and  Praskovya  lagged  a  little  behind,  and  when  the 


174  ROTHSCHILD'S  FIDDLE 

old  man  came  in  line  with  them  Lipa  bowed  low  to  him 
and  said: 

"Good  even,  Petrovich." 

Her  mother  did  likewise.  The  old  man  stopped,  and 
without  answering  looked  at  them  both;  his  lips  trembled 
find  his  eyes  filled  with  tears.  Lipa  reached  for  a  bit  of  por 
ridge-paste  from  her  mother's  bundle  and  handed  it  to  him. 
He  took  and  ate  it. 

The  sun  had  set,  its  rays  had  disappeared  from  the  road 
above;  it  was  getting  dark  and  cold;  Lipa  and  Praskovya 
passed  on,  and  Jong  afterwards  were  seen  making  the  sign  of 
the  Cross. 


VIEROCHKA 


IVAN  ALEXEYEVICH  OGNIOV  well  remembers  the 
August  evening  when  he  opened  noisily  the  glazed  hall 
door  and  went  out  on  to  the  terrace.  He  wore  a  light 
cloak  and  a  wide-brimmed  straw  hat — the  very  hat  which 
now,  beside  his  top-boots,  lies  in  the  dust  underneath  his 
bed.  He  remembers  that  he  carried  a  heavy  package  of 
books  and  manuscripts,  and  that  in  his  free  hand  was  a 
stout  stick. 

In  the  doorway,  holding  up  a  lamp,  stood  his  host,  Kuz- 
netzov,  aged  and  bald-headed,  with  his  long  grey  beard,  and 
his  cotton  jacket,  white  as  snow.  And  Kuznetzov  smiled 
benevolently  and  nodded  his  head. 

"Good-bye,  old  friend!"  cried  Ogniov. 

Kuznetzov  laid  the  lamp  on  the  hall  table,  and  followed 
Ogniov  to  the  terrace.  The  narrow  shadows  of  the  two  men 
swept  down  the  steps,  and,  crossing  the  flower-beds,  swayed, 
and  came  to  a  stop  with  the  heads  silhouetted  against  the 
lime-trees. 

'Good-bye,  and  yet  once  more,  thank  you,  old  friend," 
said  Ogniov.  "Thanks  for  your  heartiness,  your  kindness, 
your  love.  .  .  .  Never  .  .  .  never  in  my  whole  life  shall 
I  forget  your  goodness.  .  .  .  You  have  been  so  kind  .  .  . 
and  your  daughter  has  been  so  kind  ...  all  of  you  have 
been  so  kind,  so  gay,  so  hearty..  .  .  So  good,  indeed,  that 
I  cannot  express  my  gratitude." 

Under  stress  of  feeling,  under  influence  of  the  parting 
glass,  Ogniov's  voice  sounded  like  a  seminarist's,  and  his 

175 


1 76  ROTHSCHILD'S  FIDDLE 

feeling  showed  not  only  in  his  words  but  in  the  nervous 
twitching  of  eyes  and  shoulders.  And  Kuznetzov,  touched 
also  by  emotion  and  wine,  bent  over  the  young  man  and 
kissed  him.  J^  I^CJL^- 

"I  have  grown  as  used  to  you  as  if  I  were  your  dog," 
continued  Ogniov.  "I  have  been  with  you  day  after  day. 
I  have  spent  the  night  at  your  house  a  dozen  times,  and 
drunk  so  much  of  your  liqueurs  that  it  frightens  me  to  think 
of  it.  ...  But,  most  of  all,  Gavriil  Petrovich,  I  thank  you 
for  your  co-operation  and  help.  Without  you,  I  should 
have  been  worrying  over  my  statistics  till  October.  But  I 
will  put  in  my  preface:  'It  is  my  duty  to  express  to  M.  Kuz 
netzov,  President  of  the  N.  District  Zemstvo  Executive,  my 
gratitude  for  his  kind  assistance.'  Statistics  have  a  brilliant 
future!  Give  my  deepest  regards  to  Vera  Gavriilovna! 
And  tell  the  doctors,  the  two  magistrates,  and  your  secre 
tary  that  I  shall  never  forget  their  kindness.  .  .  .  And  now, 
old  friend,  let  us  embrace  and  kiss  for  the  last  time!" 

Ogniov  again  kissed  the  old  man.  When  he  reached  the 
last  step,  he  turned  his  head  and  said — 

"I  wonder  shall  we  ever  meet  again." 

"God  knows,"  answered  Kuznetzov.     "Probably  never." 

"I  fear  so.  Nothing  will  lure  you  to  Petersburg,  and  it 
is  not.  likely  that  I  shall  ever  return  to  these  parts.  Good 
bye!" 

"But  leave  your  books,"  called  Kuznetzov  after  him. 
"Why  carry  such  a  weight?  My  man  will  bring  them  to 
morrow." 

But  Ogniov,  who  had  not  heard  him,  walked  quickly  away. 
Warmed  with  wine,  his  heart  was  full  at  the  same  time  of 
sorrow  and  joy.  He  walked  forward  reflecting  how  often 
in  life  we  meet  such  kindly  men  and  women,  how  sad  it 
is  that  they  leave  but  memories  behind.  It  is  as  on  a 
journey.  The  traveller  sees  on  the  flat  horizon  the  outline  of 
a  crane;  the  weak  wind  bears  its  plaintive  cry;  yet  in  a 
moment  it  is  gone;  and  strain  his  eyes  as  he  may  towards 
the  blue  distance,  he  sees  no  bird,  and  hears  no  sound.  So 


VIEROCHKA  177 

in  the  affairs  of  men,  faces  and  voices  tremble  a  moment 
before  us,  and  slip  away  into  the  gone-before,  leaving  behind 
them  nothing  but  the  vain  records  of  memory.  Having  been 
every  day  at  hearty  Kuznetzov's  house  since  he  arrived  that 
spring  at  N.,  Ogniov  had  come  to  know  and  love  as  kinsmen 
the  old  man,  his  daughter,  their  servants.  He  knew  every 
spot  in  the  old  house,  the  cosy  terrace,  the  turns  in  the  gar 
den  paths,  the  trees  outlined  against  garden  and  bathing- 
box.  And  now  in  a  few  seconds  when  he  had  passed  the 
picket-gate,  all  these  would  be  memories,  void  for  evermore 
of  real  significance.  A  year — two  years — would  pass,  and 
all  these  kindly  images,  dulled  beyond  restoring,  would 
recur  only  in  memory  as  the  shapeless  impressions  of  a  dream. 

"In  life,"  thought  Ogniov,  as  he  approached  the  gate, 
"there  is  nothing  better  than  men.  Nothing!" 

It  was  warm  and  still.  The  whole  world  smelt  of  helio 
tropes,  mignonette,  and  tobacco-plants  which  had  not  yet 
shed  their  blooms.  Around  shrubs  and  tree-trunks  flowed 
a  sea  of  thin,  moonlight-soaked  mist;  and — what  long  re 
mained  in  Ogniov's  memory — wisps  of  vapour,  white  as 
ghosts,  floated  with  motion  imperceptibly  slow  across  the 
garden  path.  Near  the  moon,  shining  high  in  heaven,  swam 
transparent  patches  of  cloud.  The  whole  world,  it  seemed, 
was  built  of  coal-black  shadows  and  wandering  wisps  of 
white;  and,  to  Ogniov,  it  seemed  as  if  he  were  looking  not 
at  Nature,  but  at  a  decorated  scene,  as  if  clumsy  pyrotech 
nists,  illuminating  the  garden  with  white  Bengal  fire,  had 
flooded  the  air  with  a  sea  of  snowy  smoke. 

As  Ogniov  approached  the  wicket-gate  a  black  shadow 
moved  from  the  low  palisade  and  came  to  meet  him. 

"Vera  Gavriilovna,"  he  exclaimed  joyfully.  "You  here! 
After  I  had  looked  for  you  everywhere  to  say  good-bye! 
.  .  .  Good-bye,  I  am  going." 

"So  early — it  is  barely  eleven  o'clock." 

"But  late  for  me.  I  have  a  five-verst  walk,  and  I  must 
pack  up  to-night.  I  leave  early  to-morrow.  ..." 

Before  Ogniov  stood  Kuznetzov's  daughter,  twenty-one- 


i78  ROTHSCHILD'S  FIDDLE 

year-old  Vera,  whom  he  had  seen  so  often,  pensive  and  care 
lessly-dressed  and  interesting.  Day-dreaming  girls  who 
spend  whole  days  lying  down  in  desultory  reading,  who  suffer 
from  tedium  and  melancholy,  usually  dress  without  care. 
But  if  Nature  has  given  them  taste  and  the  instinct  of  beauty, 
this  negligence  in  dress  has  often  a  charm  of  its  own.  And, 
indeed,  Ogniov,  recalling  the  vision  of  pretty  Vera,  cannot 
imagine  her  without  a  loose  jacket,  hanging  in  folds  away 
from  her  waist,  without  untidy  curls  on  her  forehead,  with 
out  the  red,  shaggy-tasselled  shawl  which  all  day  long  lay 
in  the  hall  among  the  men's  caps,  or  on  the  chest  in  the 
dining-room,  where  the  old  cat  used  it  unceremoniously  as 
bed.  The  shawl  and  the  creased  jacket  seemed  to  express 
the  easy-going  indolence  of  a  sedentary  life.  But  perhaps 
it  was  because  Ogniov  liked  Vera,  that  every  button  and 
fold  exhaled  to  him  goodness  and  poetry,  something  foreign 
to  women  insincere,  void  of  the  instinct  of  beauty,  and 
cold.  .  .  .  And  Vera,  too,  had  a  good  figure,  regular  features, 
and  pretty  wavy  hair.  To  Ogniov,  who  knew  few  women, 
she  seemed  beautiful. 

"I  am  going  away,"  he  said  again,  bidding  her  good-bye 
at  the  wicket-gate.  "Think  well  of  me!  And  thanks  for 
everything!" 

And  again  twitching  his  shoulders,  and  speaking  in  the 
sing-song  seminarist's  voice  which  he  had  used  to  the  old 
man,  he  thanked  Vera  for  her  hospitality,  her  kindness,  her 
heartiness. 

"I  wrote  about  you  to  my  mother  in  every  letter,"  he 
said.  "If  all  men  were  like  you  and  your  father,  life  on 
earth  would  be  paradise.  Every  one  in  your  house  is  the 
same.  So  simple,  so  hearty,  so  sincere.  ..." 

"Where  are  you  going?" 

"First  to  my  mother,  in  Oriol.  I  shall  spend  two  days 
there.  Then  to  St.  Petersburg  to  work." 

"And  then?" 

"Then?  I  shall  work  all  winter,  and  in  spring  go  some 
where  in  the  country  to  collect  material.  Well  .  .  be 


VIEROCHKA 

happy,  live  a  hundred  years,  and  think  well  of  me!  This 
is  the  last  time  we  meet." 

Ogniov  bowed  his  head  and  kissed  Vierochka's  hand, 
then  in  silent  confusion  straightened  his  cloak,  rearranged  his 
package  of  books,  and  said — 

"What  a  thick  mist  to-night!" 

"Yes.     Have  you  not  forgotten  anything?" 

"Nothing  ...  I  think." 

For  a  moment  Ogniov  stood  silently.  Then  he  turned 
awkwardly  to  the  gate  and  went  out  of  the  garden. 

"Wait!  Let  me  go  with  you  as  far  as  the  wood,"  said 
Vera,  running  after  him. 

They  followed  the  road.  Trees  no  longer  obscured  the 
view,  and  they  could  see  the  sky,  and  the  country  far  ahead. 
Through  breaks  in  the  veil  of  semi-transparent  smoke,  the 
world  exposed  its  fairness ;  the  white  mist  lay  unevenly  around 
bushes  and  hayricks,  or  wandered  in  tiny  cloudlets,  cling 
ing  to  the  surface  as  if  not  to  cut  off  the  view.  The  road  could 
be  seen  all  the  way  to  the  wood,  and  in  the  ditches  beside 
it  rose  little  bushes  which  trapped  and  hindered  the  vaga 
bond  mist  wisps.  Half  a  verst  away  rose  a  dark  belt  of 
forest. 

"Why  has  she  come?  I  shall  have  to  see  her  home," 
Ogniov  asked  himself.  But  looking  at  Vera's  profile,  ha 
smiled  kindly,  and  said — 

"I  hate  going  away  in  weather  like  this.  This  evening 
is  quite  romantic,  what  with  the  moonlight,  the  silence  .  .  . 
and  all  the  honours!  Do  you  know  what,  Vera  Gavriilovna? 
I  am  now  twenty-nine  years  old,  yet  have  never  had  a  single 
romance!  J  In  all  my  life  so  far,  not  one!  So  of  trysts,  paths 
of  sighs,  and  kisses,  I  know  only  by  hearsay.  It  is  abnormal. 
Sitting  in  my  own  room  in  town,  I  never  notice  the  void. 
But  here  in  the  open  jiir  I  somehow  feel  it  ...  strongly 
...  it  is  almost  annoying.?' 

"But  what  is  the  cause?" 

"I  can't  say.  Perhaps  it  is  because  so  far  I  have  never 
had  time,  perhaps  simply  because  I  have  never  vet  met  a 


38o  ROTHSCHILD'S  FIDDLE 

woman  who  .  .  .  But  I  have  few  friends,  and  seldom  go 
anywhere." 

They  walked  three  hundred  yards  in  silence.  As  Ogniov 
looked  at  Vera's  shawl  and  uncovered  head,  he  recalled  the 
past  spring  and  summer  days,  when  far  from  his  grey  St. 
Petersburg  rooms,  caressed  by  kindly  Nature  and  by  kindly 
friends,  pursuing  his  much-loved  work,  he  had  seen  slip  by, 
uncounted,  sunset  after  dawn,  day  after  day,  nor  noticed 
how,  foreshadowing  summer's  end,  the  nightingale  first,  the 
quail,  and  then  the  corncrake  ceased  their  songs.  Time  had 
passed  unseen;  and  that,  he  supposed,  meant  that  life  had 
spun  out  pleasantly  and  without  jar.  He  recalled  how  at 
the  end  of  April  he  had  arrived. at  N.,  a  poor  man,  unused 
to  society;  and  expected  nothing  but  tedium,  solitude,  and 
contempt  for  statistics-fwhich.  in  his  opinion  took  a  high 
place  among  the  useful  sciences.  He  remembered  the  April 
evening  of  his  arrival  at  the  inn  <of  Old-Believer  Riabukhin. 
where  for  twenty  kopecks  a  day  he  was  given  a  bright,  clean 
room,  with  only  one  restriction,  that  he  should  smoke  out 
of  doors.  He  remembered  how  he  had  rested  a  few  hours, 
and,  asking  for  the  address  of  the  President  of  the  Zemstvp 
Executive,  had  set  out  on  foot  to  Gavriil  Petrovich's  hdusej 
how  he  had  tramped  through  four  versts  of  rich  meadows  and 
young  plantations;  how  high  under  a  veil  of  cloud  trembled 
a  lark,  filling  the  world  with  silver  sounds,  while  above  the 
green  pastures,  with  a  stolid,  pompous  flapping  of  wings, 
the  rooks  flew  up  and  down. 

"Is  it  possible?"  Ogniov  asked  himself,  "that  they  breathe 
this  air  every  day,  or  is  it  perfumed  only  this  evening  in 
honour  of  me?" 

He  remembered  how,  expecting  a  dry,  business-like  recep 
tion,  he  had  entered  Kuznetzov's  study  timidly,  with  averted 
face,  and  shyly  stroked  his  beard.  And  how  the  old  man 
contracted  his  brows,  and  failed  utterly  to  understand  what 
this  young  man  with  his  statistics  wanted  with  the  Zemstvo 
Executive.  But  as  he  began  to  understand  what  statistics 
really  mean,  and  how  they  are  collected,  Gavriil  Petrovich 


VIEROCHKA  181 

woke  up,  smiled,  and  with  infantile  curiosity  began  to  exam 
ine  his  visitor's  note-books.  .  .  .  And  on  the  evening  of 
the  same  day,  Ogniov  sat  at  Kuznetzov's  supper- table,  grew 
tipsy  on  strong  liqueurs,  and,  watching  the  placid  faces  and 
lazy  gestures  of  his  new  acquaintances,  felt  spreading  through 
his  whole  body  that  sweet,  drowsy  indolence  of  one  who, 
wanting  to  continue  his  sleep,  stretches  himself  and  smiles. 
And  his  new-found  friends  looked  at  him  lovingly,  asked  were 
his  father  and  mother  alive,  how  much  he  earned  a  month, 
and  whether  he  often  went  to  the  theatre. 

Ogniov  recalled  the  long  drives  through  the  cantons,  the 
picnics,  the  fishing  parties,  the  trip  to  the  convent  when  the 
Mother  Superior  presented  each  visitor  with  a  bead-purse; 
he  recalled  the  endless,  heated,  truly  Russian  arguments,  in 
which  the  disputants,  banging  their  fists  on  the  table,  mis 
understood  and  interrupted  without  knowing  what  they  meant 
to  say,  wandered  from  the  subject,  and  after  arguing  fiercely 
a  couple  of  hours,  exclaimed  with  a  laugh,  "The  devil  knows 
what  this  dispute  is  about.  We  began  about  health,  and 
are  now  arguing  about  rest  in  the  grave ! " 

"Do  you  remember  when  you  and  I  rode  to  Shestovo 
with  the  doctor?"  asked  Ogniov  as  they  drew  near  to  the 
wood.  "We  met  a  lunatic.  I  gave  him  five  kopecks,  and 
he  crossed  himself  thrice,  and  threw  the  money  in  my  face. 
What  hosts  of  impressions  I  carry  away — if  fused  in  a  com 
pact  mass,  I  should  have  a  big  ingot  of  gold!  I  never  un 
derstood  why  clever,  sensitive  men  crowd  into  big  cities  in 
stead  of  living  in  the  country.  Is  there  more  space  and 
truth  on  the  Nevsky,  and  in  the  big  damp  houses?  My 
house,  for  instance,  which  is  packed  from  top  to  bottom  with 
artists,  students,  and  journalists,  always  seems  to  me  to 
embody  an  absurd  prejudice.'] 

Some  twenty  paces  tronTthe  wood  the  road  crossed  a 
narrow  bridge  with  posts  at  the  corners.  During  their 
spring  walks,  this  bridge  was  a  stopping  place  for  the 
Kuznetzovs  and  their  visitors.  Thence  they  could  draw 


182  ROTHSCHILD'S  FIDDLE 

echoes  from  the  wood,  and  watch  the  road  as  it  vanished 
in  a  black  drive. 

"We  are  at  the  bridge,"  said  Ogniov.     "You  must  return." 

Vera  stopped,  and  drew  a  deep  breath. 

"Let  us  sit  down  for  a  minute,"  she  said,  seating  herself 
on  a  pillar.  "When  we  say  good-bye  to  friends  we  always 
sit  down  here." 

Ogniov  sat  beside  her  on  his  parcel  of  books,  and  con 
tinued  to  speak.  Vera  breathed  heavily,  and  looked  straight 
into  the  distance,  so  that  he  could  not  see  her  face. 

"Perhaps  some  day,  in  ten  years'  time,  we'll  meet  some 
where  again,"  he  said.  "Things  will  be  different.  You  will 
be  the  honoured  mother  of  a  family,  and  I  the  author  of  a 
respectable,  useless  book  of  statistics,  fat  as  forty  albums 
put  together.  .  .  .  To-night,  the  present  counts,  it  absorbs 
and  agitates  us.  But  ten  years  hence  we  shall  remember 
neither  the  date  nor  the  month,  nor  even  the  year,  when 
we  sat  on  this  bridge  together  for  the  last  time.  You,  of 
course,  will  be  changed.  You  will  change." 

'What?" 

"I  asked  you  just  now.  .  .  ." 

"I  did  not  hear." 

Only  now  did  Ogniov  notice  the  change  that  had  come 
ever  Vera.  She  was  pale  and  breathless;  her  hands  and 
lips  trembled;  and  instead  of  the  usual  single  lock  of  hair 
falling  on  her  forehead,  there  were  two.  She  did  her  best  to 
mask  her  agitation  and  avoid  looking  him  in  the  face;  and 
to  help  in  this,  she  first  straightened  her  collar  as  if  it  were 
cutting  her  neck,  and  then  drew  the  red  shawl  from  one 
side  to  the  other. 

"You  are  cold,  I  am  afraid,"  began  Ogniov.  "You  must 
not  sit  in  the  mist.  Let  me  see  you  home." 

Vera  did  not  answer. 

"What  is  the  matter?"  resumed  Ogniov.  "You  do  not 
answer  my  questions.  You  are  ill?" 

Vera  pressed  her  hand  firmly  to  her  cheek,  and  suddenly 
drew  it  away. 


VIEROCHKA  183 

Y— N 

"It  is  too  awful,"  she  whispered,  .with  a  look  of  intense 
agony.  "Too  awful!" 

"What  is  too  awful?"  asked  Ogniov,  shrugging  his  shoul 
ders,  and  making  no  effort  to  conceal  his  surprise.  "What 
is  the  matter?" 

Still  breathing  heavily  and  twitching  her  shoulders,  Vera 
turned  away  from  him,  and  after  looking  a  moment  at  the 
sky,  began — 

"I  have  to  speak  to  you,  Ivan  Alekseyevich.  .  .  ." 

"I  am  listening." 

"I  know  it  will  seem  strange  to  you  .  .  .  you  will  be 
astonished,  but  I  do  not  care.  ..." 

Ogniov  again  shrugged  his  shoulders  and  prepared  to 
listen. 

"It  is  this  .  .  .  ,"  began  Vera,  averting  her  eyes,  and 
twirling  the  shawl-tassels  in  her  fingers.  "You  see,  this  is 
.  .  .  that  is  what  I  wanted  to  say.  ...  It  will  seem  absurd 
to  you  .  .  .  and  stupid  .  .  .  but  I  cannot  bear  it!" 

Vera's  words,  half  smothered  in  incoherent  stammerings, 
were  suddenly  interrupted  by  tears.  She  hid  her  face  in 
the  shawl,  and  wept  bitterly.  Ogniov,  confused  and  stupe 
fied,  coughed,  and,  having  no  idea  what  to  say  or  do,  looked 
helplessly  around.  He  was  unused  to  tears,  and  Vera's 
breakdown  seemed  to  make  his  own  eyes  water. 

"Come,  come!"  he  stammered  helplessly.  "Vera  Gavriil- 
ovna?  What  does  this  mean?  Are  you  ill?  Some  one 
has  annoyed  you?  Tell  me  what  it  is  ...  and  perhaps  I 
can  help  you." 

And  when,  in  a  last  attempt  to  console  her,  he  drew  her 
hands  cautiously  from  her  face,  she  smiled  at  him  through 
her  tears,  and  said — 

"I  ...  I  love  you!" 

The  words,  simple  and  ordinary,  were  spoken  in  a  simple 
and  ordinary  voice.  But  Ogniov,  covered  with  intense  con 
fusion,  turned  his  face  away. 

His  confusion  was  followed  by  fright.  The  atmosphere 
of  mournfulness,  warmth,  and  sentiment  inspired  by  liqueurs 


184  ROTHSCHILD'S  FIDDLE 

and  leave-takings,  suddenly  made  way  for  a  sharp,  unpleasant 
feeling  of  awkwardness.  Feeling  that  his  whole  soul  had 
been  turned  inside  out,  he  looked  shyly  at  Vera;  and  she, 
having  avowed  her  love,  and  cast  for  ever  away  her  woman's 
enhancing  inaccessibility,  seemed  smaller,  simpler,  meaner. 

"What  does  it  all  mean?"  he  asked  himself  in  terror. 
''And  then  ...  do  I  love  her  ...  or  not? — that  is  the 
problem." 

But  she,  now  that  the  hardest,  painfullest  part  was  ended, 
breathed  easily  and  freely.  She  rose  from  her  seat,  and, 
looking  straight  into  Ogniov's  eyes,  spoke  quickly,  warmly, 
without  constraint. 

Those  who  have  been  overtaken  by  sudden  terror  seldom 
remember  details,  and  Ogniov  to-day  recalls  not  one  of  Vera's 
words.  He  remembers  only  their  import  and  the  emotions 
they  brought  forth.  He  remembers  her  voice,  which  seemed 
to  come  from  a  strangled  throat,  a  voice  hoarse  with  emo 
tion,  and  the  magic  passion  and  harmony  in  its  intonations. 
Crying,  smiling,  scattering  tear-drops  from  her  eyes,  she 
confessed  that  since  the  first  days  of  their  friendship  she 
had  been  won  by  his  originality,  his  intellect,  his  kind,  clever 
eyes,  and  by  the  aims  and  aspirations  of  his  life.  That 
she  loved  him  devoutly,  passionately,  madly ;  that  in  summer 
when  she  went  from  the  garden  into  the  house,  and  saw  his 
coat  in  the  hall,  or  heard  his  voice,  her  heart  thrilled  with 
a  presage  of  intense  joy;  that  his  most  trivial  jokes  had 
made  her  laugh;  that  every  figure  in  his  note-books  exhaled 
to  her  wisdom  and  majesty;  that  even  his  cane  standing 
in  the  hall  had  seemed  to  her  lovelier  than  the  trees. 

The  wood,  the  patches  of  mist,  even  the  black  roadside 
ditches  were  charmed,  it  seemed,  as  they  listened.  But 
Ogniov's  heart  felt  only  estrangement  and  pain.  Avowing 
her  love,  Vera  was  entrancingly  fair;  her  words  were  noble 
and  impassioned.  But  Ogniov  felt  not  the  pleasure  or  vital 
joy  which  he  himself  yearned  for,  but  only  sympathy  with 
Vera,  and  pain  that  a  fellow-creature  should  suffer  so  for 
his  sake.  Heaven  only  knows  why  it  was  so !  But  whether 


VIEROCHKA  185 

the  cause  was  book-learned  reason,  or  merely  that  impreg 
nable  objectivity  which  forbids  some  men  to  live  as  men, 
the  ecstasy  and  passion  of  Vera  seemed  to  him  affected  and 
unreal.  Yet  even  while  he  felt  this,  something  whispered 
that,  in  the  light  of  Nature  and  personal  happiness,  that 
which  he  listened  to  then  was  a  thousand  times  more  vital 
than  all  his  books,  his  statistics,  his  eternal  verities.  And 
he  was  angry,  and  reproached  himself,  though  he  had  no 
idea  wherein  he  was  at  fault. 

What  increased  his  confusion  was  that  he  knew  he  must 
reply.  An  answer  was  inevitable.  To  say  to  Vera  plainly 
"I  do  not  love  you!"  he  had  not  the  strength.  But  he 
could  not  say  "I  do,"  for  with  all  his  searchings  he  could 
not  find  in  his  heart  a  single  spark. 

And  he  listened  silently  while  she  said  that  she  could 
know  no  greater  happiness  than  to  see  him,  to  follow  him, 
to  go  with  him  wheresoever  he  might  go,  to  be  his  wife 
and  helper  .  .  .  and  that  if  he  abandoned  her  she  would 
^ie  of  grief. 

"I  cannot  stay  here,"  she  exclaimed,  wringing  her  hands. 
"I  have  come  to  detest  this  house,  and  this  wood,  and  this 
air.  I  am  tired  of  this  changeless  restfulness  and  aimless 
life;  I  can  stand  no  longer  our  colourless,  pale  people,  as  like 
one  another  as  two  drops  of  water!  They  are  genial  and 
kind  .  .  .  because  they  are  contented,  because  they  have 
never  suffered  and  never  struggled.  But  I  can  stand  it  no 
more.  ...  I  want  to  go  to  the  big  grey  houses,  where 
people  suffer,  embittered  by  labour  and  need.  .  .  ." 

And  all  this  seemed  to  Ogniov  affected  and  unreal.  When 
Vera  ceased  to  speak  he  was  still  without  an  answer.  But 
silence  was  impossible,  and  he  stammered  out — 

"I  .  .  .  Vera  Gavriilovna  ...  I  am  very  grateful  to 
you,  although  I  feel  that  I  deserve  no  such  .  .  .  such  feel 
ings.  In  the  second  place,  as  an  honest  man,  I  must  say 
that  .  .  .  happiness  is  based  on  mutuality  .  .  .  that  is,  when 
both  parties  .  .  .  when  they  love  equally." 

Ogniov  suddenly  felt  ashamed  of  his  stammering  speech, 


186  ROTHSCHILD'S  FIDDLE 

and  was  silent.  He  felt  that  his  expression  w?is  guilty, 
stupid,  and  dull,  and  that  his  face  was  strained  and  drawn 
out.  And  Vera,  it  seemed,  could  read  the  truth  in  his  looks, 
for  she  paled,  looked  at  him  with  terror,  and  averted  her 
eyes. 

"You  will  forgive  me,"  stammered  Ogniov,  feeling  the 
silence  past  bearing.  "I  respect  you  so  very,  very  much 
that  .  .  .  that  I  am  sorry  .  .  ." 

Vera  suddenly  turned  away,  and  walked  rapidly  towards 
the  house.  Ogniov  followed  her. 

"No,  there  is  no  need!"  she  said,  waving  her  hand.  "Do 
not  come!  I  will  go  alone.  ..." 

"But  still  ...  I  must  see  you  home." 

All  that  Ogniov  had  said,  even  his  last  words,  seemed  to 
him  flat  and  hateful.  The  feeling  increased  with  each  step. 
He  raged  at  himself  and,  clenching  his  fists,  cursed  his  cold 
ness  and  awkwardness  with  women.  In  a  last  vain  effort  to 
stir  his  own  feelings  he  looked  at  Vera's  pretty  figure,  at  her 
hair,  at  the  imprints  of  her  little  feet  on  the  dusty  road. 
He  remembered  her  words  and  her  tears.  But  all  this  filled 
him  only  with  pain,  and  left  his  feelings  dead. 

"Yes.  ...  A  man  cannot  force  himself  to  love!"  he  rea 
soned,  and  at  the  same  time  thought,  "When  shall  I  ever 
love  except  by  force?  I  am  nearly  thirty.  Better  than 
Vierochka  among  women  I  have  never  met  .  .  .  and 
never  shall  meet.  Oh,  accursed  old  age!  Old  age  at 
thirty!" 

Vera  walked  before  him,  each  moment  quickening  her  step. 
Her  face  was  bowed  to  the  ground,  and  she  did  not  look 
round  once.  It  seemed  to  Ogniov  that  she  had  suddenly 
grown  slighter  and  that  her  shoulders  were  narrower. 

"I  can  imagine  her  feelings,"  he  said  to  himself.  "Shame 
.  .  .  and  such  pain  as  to  make  her  wish  for  death!  .  .  . 
And  in  her  words  there  was  life  and  poetry,  and  meaning 
enough  to  have  melted  a  stone!  But  I  ...  I  am  senseless 
and  blind." 

"Listen,  Vera  Gavriilovna."     This  cry  burst  from  him 


VIEROCHKA  187 

against  his  will.     "You  must  not  think  that  I  ...  that 
I  ..." 

Ogniov  hesitated  and  said  nothing  more.  At  the  wicket- 
gate  Vera  turned,  looked  at  him  for  an  instant,  and,  wrap 
ping  her  shawl  tightly  around  her  shoulders,  walked  quickly 
up  the  path. 

Ogniov  remained  alone.  He  turned  back  to  the  wood, 
and  walked  slowly,  stopping  now  and  then  and  looking  to 
wards  the  gate.  His  movements  expressed  doubt  of  him 
self.  He  searched  the  road  for  the  imprints  of  Vierochka's 
feet.  He  refused  to  credit  that  one  whom  he  liked  so  much 
had  avowed  to  him  her  love,  and  that  he  had  awkwardly, 
boorishly  scorned  her.  For  the  first  time  in  life  he  realised 
how  little  one's  actions  depend  from  mere  goodwill;  and  he 
felt  as  feels  every  honourable,  kindly  man  who,  despite  his 
intentions,  has  caused  his  nearest  and  dearest  unmeant  and 
unmerited  suffering. 

His  conscience  stung  him.  When  Vierochka  vanished  in 
the  garden  he  felt  that  he  had  lost  something  very  dear  which 
he  would  never  find  again.  With  Vera,  it  seemed  to  him, 
a  part  of  his  youth  had  passed  away,  and  he  knew  that 
the  precious  moments  he  had  let  slip  away  without  profit 
would  never  return. 

When  he  reached  the  bridge  he  stopped  in  thought,  and 
sought  the  cause  of  his  unnatural  coldness.  That  it  lay 
not  outside  himself,  but  within,  he  saw  clearly.  And  he 
frankly  confessed  that  this  was  not  the  rational  calmness 
boasted  by  clever  men,  not  the  coldness  of  inflated  egoism, 
but  simply  impotence  of  soul,  dull  insensibility  to  all  that 
is  beautiful,  old  age  before  its  day — the  fruit,  perhaps,  of  his 
training,  his  grim  struggle  for  bread,  his  friendless,  bachelor 
life. 

He  walked  slowly,  as  if  against  his  own  will,  from  the 
bridge  to  the  wood.  There  where  on  a  pall  of  impenetrable 
black  the  moonlight  shone  in  jagged  patches  he  remained 
alone  with  his  thoughts;  and  he  passionately  longed  to  re 
gain  all  that  he  had  lost. 


1 88  ROTHSCHILD'S  FIDDLE 

And  Ogniov  remembers  what  he  returned  to  the  house. 
Goading  himself  forward  with  memories  of  what  had  passed, 
straining  his  imagination  to  paint  Vera's  face,  he  walked 
quickly  as  far  as  the  garden.  From  road  and  garden  the 
mist  had  melted  away,  and  a  bright,  newly  washed  moon 
looked  down  from  an  unflecked  sky;  the  east  alone  frowned 
with  clouds.  Ogniov  remembers  his  cautious  steps,  the  black 
windows,  the  drowsy  scent  of  heliotropes  and  mignonette. 
He  remembers  how  old  friend  Karpo,  wagging  genially  his 
tail,  came  up  and  snuffed  at  his  hand.  But  no  other  living 
thing  did  he  see.  He  remembers  how  he  walked  twice 
around  the  house,  stood  awhile  before  the  black  window  of 
Vera's  room;  and  abandoning  his  quest  with  a  sigh  returned 
to  the  road. 

An  hour  later  he  was  back  in  town;  and,  weary,  broken, 
leaning  his  body  and  hot  face  against  the  gate,  knocked  at 
the  inn.  In  the  distance  barked  a  sleepy  dog;  and  the  night 
watchman  at  the  church  beat  an  iron  shield. 

"Still  gadding  about  at  night!"  grumbled  the  Old-Be 
liever,  as  in  a  long,  woman's  night-dress  he  opened  the 
door.  "What  do  you  gain  by  it?  It  would  be  better  xor 
you  if  you  stayed  at  home  and  prayed  to  God ! " 

When  he  entered  his  room  Ogniov  threw  himself  upon  the 
bed,  and  long  gazed  steadily  at  the  fire.  At  last  he  rose, 
shook  his  head,  and  began  to  pack  his  trunk. 


A  TIRESOME  STORY 

(FROM  AN  OLD  MAN'S  JOURNAL) 
I 


lives  in  Russia  an  emeritus  professor,  Nikolay 

Stepanovich,  privy  councillor  and  knight.  He  has  so 
many  Russian  and  foreign  Orders  that  when  he  puts  them 
on  the  students  call  him  "the  holy  picture."  His  acquaint 
ance  is  most  distinguished.  Not  a  single  famous  scholai 
lived  or  died  during  the  last  twenty-five  or  thirty  years  but 
he  was  intimately  acquainted  with  him.  Now  he  has  no 
one  to  be  friendly  with,  but  speaking  of  the  past  the  long  list 
of  his  eminent  friends  would  end  with  such  names  as  Pirogov, 
Kavelin,  and  the  poet  Nekrasov,  who  bestowed  upon  him 
their  warmest  and  most  sincere  friendship.  He  is  a  member 
of  all  the  Russian  and  of  three  foreign  universities,  et  cetera, 
et  cetera.  All  this,  and  a  great  deal  besides,  forms  what  is 
known  as  my  name. 

This  name  of  mine  is  very  popular.  It  is  known  to  every 
literate  person  in  Russia;  abroad  it  is  mentioned  from  pro 
fessional  chairs  with  the  epithets  "eminent  and  esteemed." 
It  is  reckoned  among  those  fortunate  names  which  to  men 
tion  in  vain  or  to  abuse  in  public  or  in  the  Press  is  consid 
ered  a  mark  of  bad  breeding.  Indeed,  it  should  be  so;  be 
cause  with  my  name  is  inseparably  associated  the  idea  of 
a  famous,  richly  gifted,  and  indubitably  useful  person.  I 
am  a  steady  worker,  with  the  endurance  of  a  camel,  which  is 

189 


ROTHSCHILD'S  FIDDLE 

important.  I  am  also  endowed  with  talent,  which  is  still 
more  important.  In  passing,  I  would  add  that  I  am  a  well- 
educated,  modest,  and  honest  fellow.  I  have  never  poked 
my  nose  into  letters  or  politics,  never  sought  popularity  in 
disputes  with  the  ignorant,  and  made  no  speeches  either  at 
dinners  or  at  my  colleagues'  funerals.  Altogether  there  is 
not  a  single  spot  on  my  learned  name,  and  it  has  nothing  to 
complain  of.  It  is  fortunate. 

The  bearer  of  this  name,  that  is  myself,  is  a  man  of  sixty- 
two,  with  a  bald  head,  false  teeth  and  an  incurable  tic.  My 
name  is  as  brilliant  and  prepossessing,  as  I  myself  am  dull 
and  ugly.  My  head  and  hands  tremble  from  weakness;  my 
neck,  like  that  of  one  of  Turgeniev's  heroines,  resembles  the 
handle  of  a  counter-bass;  my  chest  is  hollow  and  my  back 
narrow.  When  I  speak  or  read  my  mouth  twists,  and  when 
I  smile  my  whole  face  is  covered  with  senile,  deathly  wrinkles. 
There  is  nothing  imposing  in  my  pitiable  face,  save  that  when 
I  suffer  from  the  tic,  I  have  a  singular  expression  which 
compels  anyone  who  looks  at  me  to  think:  "This  man  will 
die  soon,  for  sure." 

I  can  still  read  pretty  well;  I  can  still  hold  the  attention 
of  my  audience  for  two  hours.  My  passionate  manner,  the 
literary  form  of  my  exposition  and  my  humour  make  the 
defects  of  my  voice  almost  unnoticeable,  though  it  is  dry, 
harsh,  and  hard  like  a  hypocrite's.  But  I  write  badly.  The 
part  of  my  brain  which  governs  the  ability  to  write  refused 
office.  My  memory  has  weakened,  and  my  thoughts  are  too 
inconsequent;  and  when  I  expound  them  on  paper,  I  always 
have  a  feeling  that  I  have  lost  the  sense  of  their  organic 
connection.  The  construction  is  monotonous,  and  the  sen 
tence  feeble  and  timid.  I  often  do  not  write  what  I  want  to, 
and  when  I  write  the  end  I  cannot  remember  the  beginning. 
I  often  forget  common  words,  and  in  writing  a  letter  I  always 
have  to  waste  much  energy  in  order  to  avoid  superfluous 
sentences  and  unnecessary  incidental  statements;  both  bear 
clear  witness  of  the  decay  of  my  intellectual  activity.  And 
it  is  remarkable  that,  the  simpler  the  letter,  the  more  tor- 


A  TIRESOME  STORY  191 

meriting  is  my  effort.  When  writing  a  scientific  article  I 
feel  much  freer  and  much  more  intelligent  than  in  writing 
a  letter  of  welcome  or  a  report.  One  thing  more:  it  is 
easier  for  me  to  write  German  or  English  than  Russian. 

As  regards  my  present  life,  I  must  first  of  all  note  insomnia, 
from  which  I  have  begun  to  suffer  lately.  If  I  were  asked  • 
"What  is  now  the  chief  and  fundamental  fact  of  your  ex- 
istence?"  I  would  answer:  "Insomnia."  From  habit,  I  still 
undress  at  midnight  precisely  and  get  into  bed.  I  soon  fall 
asleep  but  wake  just  after  one  with  the  feeling  that  I  have 
not  slept  at  all.  I  must  get  out  of  bed  and  light  the  lamp. 
For  an  hour  or  two  I  walk  about  the  room  from  corner  to 
corner  and  inspect  the  long  familiar  pictures.  When  I  am 
weary  of  walking  I  sit  down  to  the  table.  I  sit  motionless 
thinking  of  nothing,  feeling  no  desires;  if  a  book  lies  before 
me  I  draw  it  mechanically  towards  me  and  read  without  in 
terest.  Thus  lately  in  one  night  I  read  mechanically  a  whole 
novel  with  a  strange  title,  "Of  What  the  Swallow  Sang." 
Or  in  order  to  occupy  my  attention  I  make  myself  count 
to  a  thousand,  or  I  imagine  the  face  of  some  one  of  my 
friends,  and  begin  to  remember  in  what  year  and  under  what 
circumstances  he  joined  the  faculty.  I  love  to  listen  to 
sounds.  Now,  two  rooms  away  from  me  my  daughter  Liza 
will  say  something  quickly,  in  her  sleep;  then  my  wife  will 
walk  through  the  drawing-room  with  a  candle  and  infallibly 
drop  the  box  of  matches.  Then  the  shrinking  wood  of  the 
cupboard  squeaks  or  the  burner  of  the  lamp  tinkles  suddenly, 
and  all  these  sounds  somehow  agitate  me. 

Not  to  sleep  of  nights  confesses  one  abnormal;  and  there 
fore  I  wait  impatiently  for  the  morning  and  the  day,  when  I 
have  the  right  not  to  sleep;  Many  oppressive  hours  pass 
before  the  cock  crows.  He  is  my  harbinger  of  good.  As 
soon  as  he  has  crowed  I  know  that  in  an  hour's  time  the  por 
ter  downstairs  will  awake  and  for  some  reason  or  other  go 
up  the  stairs,  coughing  angrily;  and  later  beyond  the  win 
dows  the  air  begins  to  pale  gradually  and  voices  echo  in  the 
street. 


I92  ROTHSCHILD'S  FIDDLE 

The  day  begins  with  the  coming  of  my  wife.  She  comes 
in  to  me  in  a  petticoat,  with  her  hair  undone,  but  already 
washed  and  smelling  of  eau  de  Cologne,  and  looking  as 
though  she  came  in  by  accident,  saying  the  same  thing  every 
time:  "Pardon,  I  came  in  for  a  moment.  You  haven't  slept 
again?"  Then  she  puts  the  lamp  out,  sits  by  the  table 
and  begins  to  talk.  I  am  not  a  prophet  but  I  know  before 
hand  what  the  subject  of  conversation  will  be,  every  morning 
the  same.  Usually,  after  breathless  inquiries  after  my  health, 
she  suddr"iy  remembers  our  son,  the  officei,  who  IF  serving 
in  Warsaw.  On  the  twentieth  of  each  month  #e  send  him 
fifty  rubles.  This  is  our  chief  subject  of  conversation. 

"Of  course  it  is  hard  on  us,"  my  wife  sighs.  "But  until 
he  is  finally  settled  we  are  obliged  to  help  him.  The  boy  is 
among  strangers;  the  pay  is  small.  But  if  you  like,  next 
month  we'll  send  him  forty  rubles  instead  of  fifty.  What  do 
you  think?" 

Daily  experience  might  have  convinced  my  wife  that  ex 
penses  do  not  grow  less  by  talking  of  them.  But  my  wife 
does  not  acknowledge  experience  and  speaks  about  our  officer 
punctually  every  day,  about  bread,  thank  Heaven,  being 
cheaper  and  sugar  a  half-penny  dearer — and  all  this  in  a 
tone  as  though  it  were  news  to  me. 

I  listen  and  agree  mechanically.  Probably  because  I  have 
not  slept  during  the  night  strange  idle  thoughts  take  hold 
of  me.  I  look  at  my  wife  and  wonder  like  a  child.  In  per 
plexity  I  ask  myself:  This  old,  stout,  clumsy  woman,  with 
sordid  cares  and  anxiety  about  bread  and  butter  written  in 
the  dull  expression  of  her  face,  her  eyes  tired  with  eternal 
thoughts  of  debts  and  poverty,  who  can  talk  only  of  debts 
and  poverty,  who  can  talk  only  of  expenses  and  smile  only 
when  things  are  cheap — was  this  once  the  slim  Varya  whom  I 
loved  passionately  for  her  fine  clear  mind,  her  pure  soul, 
her  beauty,  and  as  Othello  loved  Desdemona,  for  her  "com 
passion"  of  my  science?  Is  she  really  the  same,  my  wife 
Varya,  who  bore  me  a  .son? 

intently  into  the  fat,  clumsy  old  woman's  face.     I 


A  TIRESOME  STORY  193 

seek  in  her  my  Vary  a;  but  from  the  past  nothing  remains 
but  her  fear  for  my  health  and  her  way  of  calling  my  salary 
"our"  salary  and  my  hat  "our"  hat.  It  pains  me  to  look 
at  her,  if  only  a  little,  I  let  her  talk  as  she  pleases,  and  I  am 
silent  even  when  she  judges  people  unjustly,  or  scolds  me 
because  I  do  not  practise  and  do  not  publish  text-books. 

Our  conversation  always  ends  in  the  same  way.  My  wife 
suddenly  remembers  that  I  have  not  yet  had  tea,  and  gives 
a  start: 

"Why  am  I  sitting  down?"  she  says,  getting  up.  "The 
samovar  has  been  on  the  table  a  long  while,  and  I  sit  chat 
ting.  How  forgetful  I  am?  Good  gracious!" 

She  hurries  away,  but  stops  at  the  door  to  say: 

"We  owe  Yegor  five  months'  wages.  Do  you  realise  it? 
It's  a  bad  thing  to  let  the  servants'  wages  run  on.  I've  said 
so  often.  It's  much  easier  to  pay  ten  rubles  every  month 
than  fifty  for  five!" 

Outside  the  door  she  stops  again: 

"I  oity  our  poor  Liza  more  than  anybody.  The  girl  studies 
at  the  Conservatoire.  She's  always  in  good  society,  and  the 
Lord  only  knows  how  she's  dressed.  That  fur-coat  of  hers! 
It's  a  sin  to  show  yourself  in  the  street  in  it.  If  she  had  a 
different  father,  it  would  do,  but  everyone  knows  he  is  a 
famous  professor,  a  privy  councillor." 

So,  having  reproached  me  for  my  name  and  title,  she  goes 
away  at  last.  .Jfhus_begins  my  day.  It  does  not  improve. 

When  I  have  drunk  myTea,  £fza  comes  in,  in  a  fur-coat 
and  hat,  with  her  music,  ready  to  go  to  the  Conservatoire. 
She  is  twenty-two.  She  looks  younger.  She  is  pretty,  rather 
like  my  wife  when  she  was  young.  She  kisses  me  tenderly 
on  my  forehead  and  my  hand. 

"Good  morning,  Papa.     Quite  well?" 

As  a  child  she  adored  ice-cream,  and  I  often  had  to  take 
her  to  a  confectioner's.  Ice-cream  was  her  standard  of 
beauty.  If  she  wanted  to  praise  me,  she  used  to  say:  "Papa, 
you  are  ice-creamy."  One  finger  she  called  the  pistachio, 
the  other  the  cream,  the  third  the  raspberry  finger  and  so 


194  ROTHSCHILD'S  FIDDLE 

on.    And  when  she  came  to  say  good  morning,  I  used  to  lift 
her  on  to  my  knees  and  kiss  her  fingers,  and  say: 

"The  cream  one,  the  pistachio  one,  the  lemon  one." 

And  now  from  force  of  habit  I  kiss  Liza's  fingers  and 
murmur: 

"Pistachio  one,  cream  one,  lemon  one."  But  it  does  not 
sound  the  same.  I  am  cold  like  the  ice-cream  and  I  feel 
ashamed.  When  my  daughter  comes  in  and  touches  my  fore 
head  with  her  lips  I  shudder  as  though  a  bee  had  stung  my 
forehead,  I  smile  constrainedly  and  turn  away  my  face.  Since 
my  insomnia  began  a  question  has  been  driving  like  a  nail 
into  my  brain.  My  daughter  continually  sees  how  terribly 
I,  an  old  man,  blush  because  I  owe  the  servant  his  wages; 
she  sees  how  often  the  worry  of  small  debts  forces  me  to  leave 
my  work  and  to  pace  the  room  from  corner  to  corner  for 
hours,  thinking;  but  why  hasn't  she,  even  once,  come  to  me 
without  telling  her  mother  and  whispered:  "Father,  here's 
my  watch,  bracelets,  earrings,  dresses  .  .  .  Pawn  them 
all  ...  You  need  money"?  Why,  seeing  how  I  and  her 
mother  try  to  hide  our  poverty,  out  of  false  pride — why  does 
•vshe  not  deny  herself  the  luxury  of  music  lessons?  I  would 
not  accept  the  watch,  the  bracelets,  or  her  sacrifices — God 
forbid! — I  do  not  want  that. 

Which  reminds  me  of  my  son,  the  Warsaw  officer.  He 
is  a  clever,  honest,  and  sober  fellow.  But  that  doesn't  mean 
very  much.  If  I  had  an  old  father,  and  I  knew  that  there 
were  moments  when  he  was  ashamed  of  his  poverty,  I  think 
I  would  give  up  my  commission  to  someone  else  and  hire 
myself  out  as  a  navvy.  These  thoughts  of  the  children  poison 
•  me.  What  good  are  they?  Only  a  mean  and  irritable  per 
son  can  take  refuge  in  thinking  evil  of  ordinary  people 
because  they  are  not  heroes.  But  enough  of  that. 

At  a  quarter  to  ten  I  have  to  go  and  lecture  to  my  dear 
boys.  I  dress  myself  and  walk  the  road  I  have  known  these 
thirty  years.  For  me  it  has  a  history  of  its  own.  Here  is 
a  big  grey  building  with  a  chemist's  shop  beneath.  A  tinv 
house  once  stood  there,  and  it  was  a  beer-shop.  In  this 


A  TIRESOME  STORY  193 

beer-shop  I  thought  out  my  thesis,  and  wrote  my  first  love- 
letter  to  Varya.  I  wrote  it  in  pencil  on  a  scrap  of  paper  that 
began  "Historia  Morbi."  Here  is  a  grocer's  shop.  It  used 
to  belong  to  a  little  Jew  who  sold  me  cigarettes  on  credit, 
and  later  on  to  a  fat  woman  who  loved  students  "because 
every  one  of  them  had  a  mother."  Now  a  red-headed  mer 
chant  sits  there,  a  very  nonchalant  man,  who  drinks  tea  from 
a  copper  tea-pot.  And  here  are  the  gloomy  gates  of  the 
University  that  have  not  been  repaired  for  years;  a  weary 
porter  in  a  sheepskin  coat,  a  broom,  heaps  of  snow  .  .  . 
Such  gates  cannot  produce  a  good  impression  on  a  boy  who 
comes  fresh  from  the  provinces  and  imagines  that  the  temple 
of  science  is  really  a  temple.  Certainly,  in  the  history  of 
Russian  pessimism,  the  age  of  university  buildings,  the 
dreariness  of  the  corridors,  the  smoke-stains  on  the  walls, 
the  meagre  light,  the  dismal  appearance  of  the  stairs,  the 
clothes-pegs  and  the  benches,  hold  one  of  the  foremost  places 
in  the  series  of  predisposing  causes.  Here  is  our  garden. 
It  does  not  seem  to  have  grown  any  better  or  any  worse 
since  I  was  a  student.  I  do  not  like  it.  It  would  be  much 
more  sensible  if  tall  pine-trees  and  fine  oaks  grew  there  in 
stead  of  consumptive  lime-trees,  yellow  acacias  and  thin 
clipped  lilac.  The  student's  mood  is  created  mainly  by  every 
one  of  the  surroundings  in  which  he  studies;  therefore  he 
must  see  everywhere  before  him  only  what  is  great  and 
strong  and  exquisite.  Heaven  preserve  him  from  starveling 
trees,  broken  windows,  and  drab  walls  and  doors  covered 
with  torn  oilcloth. 

As  I  approach  my  main  staircase  the  door  is  open  wide. 
I  am  met  by  my  old  friend,  of  the  same  age  and  name  as  I, 
Nikolay  the  porter.  He  grunts  as  he  lets  me  in: 

"It's  frosty,  Your  Excellency." 

Or  if  my  coat  is  wet: 

"It's  raining  a  bit,  Your  Excellency." 

Then  he  runs  in  front  of  me  and  opens  all  the  doors  on 
my  way.  In  the  study  he  carefully  takes  off  my  coat  and  at 
the  same  time  manages  to  tell  me  some  university  news. 


196  ROTHSCHILD'S  FIDDLE 

Because  of  the  close  acquaintance  that  exists  between  all 
the  University  porters  and  keepers,  he  knows  all  that  hap 
pens  in  the  four  faculties,  in  the  registry,  in  the  chancellor's 
cabinet,  and  the  library.  He  knows  everything.  When,  for 
instance,  the  registration  of  the  rector  or  dean  is  under  dis 
cussion,  I  hear  him  talking  to  the  junior  porters,  naming 
candidates  and  explaining  offhand  that  so  and  so  will  not 
be  approved  by  the  Minister,  so  and  so  will  himself  refuse 
the  honour;  then  he  plunges  into  fantastic  details  of  some 
mysterious  papers  received  m  the  registry,  of  a  secret  con 
versation  which  appears  to  have  taken  place  between  the 
Minister  and  the  curator,  and  so  on.  These  details  apart, 
he  is  almost  always  right.  The  impressions  he  forms  of 
each  candidate  are  original,  but  also  true.  If  you  want  to 
know  who  read  his  thesis,  joined  the  staff,  resigned  or  died 
in  a  particular  year,  then  you  must  seek  the  assistance  of  this 
veteran's  colossal  memory.  He  will  not  only  name  you  the 
year,  month,  and  day,  but.  give  you  the  accompanying  de 
tails  of  this  or  any  other  event.  Such  memory  is  the  privi 
lege  of  love. 

He  is  the  guardian  of  the  university  traditions.  From  the 
porters  before  him  he  inherited  many  legends  of  the  life  of 
the  university.  He  added  to  this  wealth  much  of  his  own 
and  if  you  like  he  will  tell  you  many  stories,  long  or  short. 
He  can  tell  you  of  extraordinary  savants  who  knew  every 
thing,  of  remarkable  scholars  who  did  not  sleep  for  weeks  on 
end,  of  numberless  martyrs  to  science;  good  triumphs  over 
evil  with  him.  The  weak  always  conquer  the  strong,  the 
wise  man  the  fool,  the  modest  the  proud,  the  young  the  old. 
There  is  no  need  to  take  all  these  legends  and  stories  for 
sterling;  but  filter  them,  and  you  will  find  what  you  want 
in  your  filter,  a  noble  tradition  and  the  names  of  true  heroes 
acknowledged  by  all. 

In  our  society  all  the  information  about  the  learned  world 
consists  entirely  of  anecdotes  of  the  extraordinary  absent- 
mindedness  of  old  professors,  and  of  a  handful  of  jokes, 
which  are  ascribed  to  Guber  or  to  myself  or  to  Babukhin. 


A  TIRESOME  STORY  197 

But  this  is  too  little  for  an  educated  society.  If  k  loved 
science,  savants  and  students  as  Nikolay  loves  them,  it  would 
long  ago  have  had  a  literature  of  whole  epics,  stories,  and 
biographies.  But  unfortunately  this  is  yet  to  be. 

The  news  told,  Nikolay  looks  stern  and  we  begin  to  talk 
business.  If  an  outsider  were  then  to  hear  how  freely  Nikolay 
oses  the  jargon,  he  would  be  inclined  to  think  that  he  was  a 
scholar,  posing  as  a  soldier.  By  the  way,  the  rumours  of  the 
university-porter's  erudition  are  very  exaggerated.  It  is 
true  that  Nikolay  knows  more  than  a  hundred  Latin  tags, 
can  put  a  skeleton  together  and  on  occasion  make  a  prepa 
ration,  can  make  the  students  laugh  with  a  long  learned 
quotation,  but  the  simple  theory  of  the  circulation  of  the 
blood  is  as  dark  to  him  now  as  it  was  twenty  years  ago. 

At  the  table  in  my  room,  bent  low  over  a  book  or  a  prepa 
ration,  sits  my  dissector,  Piotr  Ignatyevich.  He  is  a  hard 
working,  modest  man  of  thirty-five  without  any  gifts,  already 
bald  and  with  a  big  belly.  He  works  from  morning  to  night, 
reads  tremendously  and  remembers  everything  he  has  read. 
In  this  respect  he  is  not  merely  an  excellent  man,  but  a 
man  of  gold;  but  in  all  others  he  is  a  cart-horse,  or  if  you 
like  a  learned  blockhead.  The  characteristic  traits  of  a 
cart-horse  which  distinguish  him  from  a  creature  of  talent  are 
these.  His  outlook  is  narrow,  absolutely  bounded  by  hi$s 
specialism.  Apart  from  his  own  subject  he  is  as  naive  as  a 
child.  I  remember  once  entering  the  room  and  saying: 

"Think  what  bad  luck!     They  say,  Skobelev  is  dead." 

Nikolay  crossed  himself;  but  Piotr  Ignatyevich  turned  to 
me: 

"Which  Skobelev  do  you  mean?" 

Another  time, — some  time  earlier — I  announced  that  Pro 
fessor  Perov  was  dead.  That  darling  Piotr  Ignatyevich 
asked: 

"What  was  his  subject?" 

I  imagine  that  if  Patti  sang  into  his  ears,  or  Russia  were 
attacked  by  hordes  of  Chinamen,  or  there  was  an  earth 
quake,  he  would  not  lift  a  finger,  but  would  go  on  in  the 


198  ROTHSCHILD'S  FIDDLE 

quietest  way  with  his  eye  screwed  over  his  microscope.  In 
a  word:  "What's  Hecuba  to  him?"  I  would  give  anything 
to  see  how  this  dry  old  stick  goes  to  bed  with  his  wife. 

Another  trait:  a  fanatical  belief  in  the  infallibility  of 
science,  above  all  in  everything  that  the  Germans  write.  He 
is  sure  of  himself  and  his  preparations,  knows  the  purpose 
of  life,  is  absolutely  ignorant  of  the  doubts  and  disillusion- 
ments  that  turn  talents  grey, — a  slavish  worship  of  the  au 
thorities,  and  not  a  shadow  of  need  to  think  for  himself.  It 
is  hard  to  persuade  him  and  quite  impossible  to  discuss  with 
him.  Just  try  a  discussion  with  a  man  who  is  profoundly 
convinced  that  the  best  science  is  medicine,  the  best  men 
doctors,  the  best  traditions — the  medical!  From  the  ugly 
past  of  medicine  only  one  tradition  has  survived, — the  white 
necktie  that  doctors  wear  still.  For  a  learned,  and  more 
generally  for  an  educated  person  there  can  exist  only  a  gen 
eral  university  tradition,  without  any  division  into  traditions 
of  medicine,  of  law,  and  so  on.  But  it's  quite  impossible 
for  Piotr  Ignatyevich  to  agree  with  that;  and  he  is  ready  to 
argue  it  with  you  till  doomsday. 

His  future  is  quite  plain  to  me.  During  the  whole  of  his 
life  he  will  make  several  hundred  preparations  of  extraor 
dinary  purity,  will  write  any  number  of  dry,  quite  compe 
tent,  essays,  will  make  about  ten  scrupulously  accurate  trans 
lations;  but  he  won't  invent  gunpowder.  For  gunpowder, 
imagination  is  wanted,  inventiveness,  and  a  gift  for  divina 
tion,  and  Piotr  Ignatyevich  has  nothing  of  the  kind.  In 
short,  he  is  not  a  master  of  science  but  a  labourer. 

Piotr  Ignatyevich,  Nikolay,  and  I  whisper  together.  We 
are  rather  strange  to  ourselves.  One  feels  something  quite 
particular,  when  the  audience  booms  like  the  sea  behind  the 
door.  In  thirty  years  I  have  not  grown  used  to  this  feeling, 
and  I  have  it  every  morning.  I  button  up  my  frock-coat 
nervously,  ask  Nikolay  unnecessary  questions,  get  angry  .  .  . 
It  is  as  though  I  were  afraid ;  but  it  is  not  fear,  but  something 
else  which  I  cannot  name  nor  describe. 

Unnecessarily,  I  look  at  my  watch  and  say: 


A  TIRESOME  STORY  195 

"Well,  it's  time  to  go." 

And  we  march  in,  in  this  order:  Nikolay  with  the  prepara 
tions  or  the  atlases  in  front,  myself  next,  and  after  me,  thf 
cart-horse,  modestly  hanging  his  head;  or,  if  necessary,  a 
corpse  on  a  stretcher  in  front  and  behind  the  corpse  Nikolay 
and  so  on.  The  students  rise  when  I  appear,  then  sit  down 
and  the  noise  of  the  sea  is  suddenly  still.  Calm  begins. 

I  know  what  I  will  lecture  about,  but  I  know  nothing  of 
how  I  will  lecture,  where  I  will  begin  and  where  I  will  end. 
There  is  not  a  single  sentence  ready  in  my  brain.  B«t  as 
soon  as  I  glance  at  the  audience,  sitting  around  me  in  an 
amphitheatre,  and  utter  the  stereotyped  "In  our  last  lecture 
\ve  ended  with  .  .  ."  and  the  sentences  fly  out  of  my  soul  in 
a  long  line — then  it  is  full  steam  ahead.  I  speak  with  irre 
sistible  speed,  and  with  passion,  and  it  seems  as  though  no 
earthly  power  could  check  the  current  of  my  speech.  In 
order  to  lecture  well,  that  is  without  being  wearisome  and 
to  the  listener's  profit,  besides  talent  you  must  have  the 
knack  of  it  and  experience;  you  must  have  a  clear  idea  both 
of  your  own  powers,  of  the  people  to  whom  you  are  lecturing, 
and  of  the  subject  of  your  remarks.  Moreover,  you  must 
be  quick  in  the  uptake,  keep  a  sharp  eye  open,  and  never 
for  a  moment  lose  your  field  of  vision. 

When  he  presents  the  composer's  thought,  a  good  con 
ductor  does  twenty  things  at  once.  He  reads  the  score, 
waves  his  baton,  watches  the  singer,  makes  a  gesture  now 
towards  the  drum,  now  to  the  double-bass,  and  so  on.  It  is 
the  same  with  me  when  lecturing.  I  have  some  hundred  and 
fifty  faces  before  mej  quite  unlike  each  other,  and  three 
hundred  eyes  staring  me  straight  in  the  face.  My  purpose 
is  to  conquer  this  many-headed  hydra.  If  I  have  a  clear 
idea  how  far  they  are  attending  and  how  much  they  are 
comprehending  every  minute  while  I  am  lecturing,  then  the 
hydra  is  in  my  power.  My  other  opponent  is  within  me. 
This  is  the  endless  variety  of  forms,  phenomena  and  laws, 
and  the  vast  number  of  ideas,  whether  my  own  or  others', 
which  depend  upon  them.  Every  moment  I  must  be  skilful 


200  ROTHSCHILD'S  FIDDLE 

enough  to  choose  what  is  most  important  and  necessary  from 
this  enormous  material,  and  just  as  swiftly  as  my  speech 
flows  to  clothe  my  thought  in  a  form  which  will  penetrate 
the  hydra's  understanding  and  excite  its  attention.  Besides 
I  must  watch  carefully  to  see  that  my  thoughts  shall  not 
be  presented  as  they  have  been  accumulated,  but  in  a  cer 
tain  order,  necessary  for  the  correct  composition  of  the 
picture  which  I  wish  to  paint.  Further,  I  endeavour  to  make 
my  speech  literary,  my  definitions  brief  and  exact,  my  sen 
tences  as  simple  and  elegant  as  possible.  Every  moment  I 
must  hold  myself  in  and  remember  that  I  have  only  an 
hour  and  forty  minutes  to  spend.  In  other  words,  it  is  a 
heavy  labour.  At  one  and  the  same  time  you  have  to  be  a 
savant,  a  schoolmaster,  and  an  orator,  and  it  is  a  failure  if 
the  orator  triumphs  over  the  schoolmaster  in  you  or  the 
schoolmaster  over  the  orator. 

After  lecturing  for  a  quarter,  for  half  an  hour,  I  notice 
suddenly  that  the  students  have  begun  to  stare  at  the  ceiling 
or  Piotr  Ignatyevich.  One  will  feel  for  his  handkerchief, 
another  settle  himself  comfortably,  another  smile  at  his  own 
thoughts.  This  means  their  attention  is  tried.  I  must  take 
steps.  I  seize  the  first  opening  and  make  a  pun.  All  ths 
hundred  and  fifty  faces  have  a  broad  smile,  their  eyes  flash 
merrily,  and  for  a  while  you  can  hear  the  boom  of  the  sea, 
I  laugh  too.  Their  attention  is  refreshed  and  I  can  go  on. 

No  sport,  no  recreation,  no  game  ever  gave  me  such  de 
light  as  reading  a  lecture.  Only  in  a  lecture  could  I  surrender 
myself  wholly  to  passion  and  understand  that  inspiration  is 
not  a  poet's  fiction,  but  exists  indeed.  And  I  do  not  believe 
that  Hercules,  even  after  the  most  delightful  of  his  exploits, 
felt  such  a  pleasant  weariness  as  I  experienced  every  time 
after  a  lecture. 

This  was  in  the  past.  Now  at  lectures  I  experience  only 
torture.  Not  half  an  hour  passes  before  I  begin  to  feel  an 
invincible  weakness  in  my  legs  and  shoulders.  I  sit  down 
in  my  chair,  but  I  am  not  used  to  lecture  sitting.  In  a  mo 
ment  I  am  up  again,  and  lecture  standing.  Then  I  sit  down 


A  TIRESOME  STORY  201 

again.  Inside  my  mouth  is  dry,  my  voice  is  hoarse,  my  head 
feels  dizzy.  To  hide  my  state  from  my  audience  I  drink 
some  water  now  and  then,  cough,  wipe  my  nose  continually, 
as  though  I  was  troubled  by  a  cold,  make  inopportune  puns, 
and  finally  announce  the  interval  earlier  than  I  should.  But 
chiefly  I  feel  ashamed. 

Conscience  and  reason  tell  me  that  the  best  thing  I  could 
do  now  is  to  read  my  farewell  lecture  to  the  boys,  give  them 
my  last  word,  bless  them  and  give  up  my  place  to  someone 
younger  and  stronger  than  I.  But,  heaven  be  my  judge,  I 
have  not  the  courage  to  act  up  to  my  conscience. 

Unfortunately,  I  am  neither  philosopher  nor  theologian. 
I  know  quite  well  I  have  no  more  than  six  months  to  live; 
and  it  would  seem  that  now  I  ought  to  be  mainly  occupied 
with  questions  of  the  darkness  beyond  the  grave,  and  the 
visions  which  will  visit  my  sleep  in  the  earth.  But  somehow 
my  soul  is  not  curious  of  these  questions,  though  my  mind 
grants  every  atom  of  their  importance.  Now  before  my 
death  it  is  just  as  it  was  twenty  or  thirty  years  ago.  Only 
science  interests  me.  When  I  take  my  last  breath  I  shall  • 
still  believe  that  Science  is  the  most  important,  the  most 
beautiful,  the  most  necessary  thing  in  the  life  of  man;  that 
she  has  always  been  and  always  will  be  the  highest  manifes 
tation  of  love,  and  that  by  her  alone  will  man  triumph  over 
nature  and  himself.  This  faith  is,  perhaps,  at  bottom  naive 
and  unfair,  but  I  am  not  to  blame  if  this  and  not  another  is 
my  faith.  To  conquer  this  faith  within  me  is  for  me  im 
possible. 

But  this  is  beside  the  point.  I  only  ask  that  you  should 
.incline  to  my  weakness  and  understand  that  to  tear  a  man 
who  is  more  deeply  concerned  with  the  destiny  of  a  brain 
tissue  than  the  final  goal  of  creation  away  from  his  rostrum 
and  his  students  is  like  taking  him  and  nailing  him  up  in  a 
coffin  without  waiting  until  he  is  dead. 

Because  of  my  insomnia  and  the  intense  struggle  with  my 
increasing  weakness  a  strange  thing  happens  inside  me.  In 
the  middle  of  my  lecture  tears  rise^o  my  throat,  my  eyes 


202  ROTHSCHILD'S  FIDDLE 

begin  to  ache,  and  I  have  a  passionate  and  hysterical  desire 
to  stretch  out  my  hands  and  moan  aloud.  I  want  to  cry 
out  that  fate  has  doomed  me,  a  famous  man,  to  death;  that 
in  some  six  months  here  in  the  auditorium  another  will  be 
master.  I  want  to  cry  out  that  I  am  poisoned ;  that  new  ideas 
that  I  did  not  know  before  have  poisoned  the  last  days  of  my 
life,  and  sting  my  brain  incessantly  like  mosquitoes.  At  that 
moment  my  position  seems  so  terrible  to  me  that  I  want 
all  my  students  to  be  terrified,  to  jump  from  their  seats  and 
rush  panic-stricken  to  the  door,  shrieking  in  despair. 
It  is  not  easy  to  live  through  such  moments. 

II 

After  the  lecture  I  sit  at  home  and  work.  I  read  reviews, 
dissertations,  or  prepare  for  the  next  lecture,  and  some 
times  I  write  something.  I  work  with  interruptions,  since  I 
have  to  receive  visitors. 

The  bell  rings.  It  is  a  friend  who  has  come  to  talk  over 
some  business.  He  enters  with  hat  and  stick.  He  holds 
them  both  in  front  of  him  and  says: 

"Just  a  minute,  a  minute.  Sit  down,  cher  confrere.  Only 
a  word  or  two." 

First  we  try  to  show  each  other  that  we  are  both  extraor 
dinarily  polite  and  very  glad  to  see  each  other.  I  make  him 
sit  down  in  the  chair,  and  he  makes  me  sit  down;  and  then 
we  touch  each  other's  waists,  and  put  our  hands  on  each 
other's  buttons,  as  though  we  were  feeling  each  other  and 
afraid  to  burn  ourselves.  We  both  laugh,  though  we  say 
nothing  funny.  Sitting  down,  we  bend  our  heads  together 
and  begin  to  whisper  to  each  other.  We  must  gild  our  con 
versation  with  such  Chinese  formalities  as:  "You  remarked 
most  justly"  or  "I  have  already  had  the  occasion  to  say." 
We  must  giggle  if  either  of  us  makes  a  pun,  though  it's  a  bad 
one.  When  we  have  finished  with  the  business,  my  friend 
gets  up  with  a  rush,  waves  his  hat  towards  my  work,  and 
begins  to  take  his  leave.  We  feel  each  other  once  more  and 


A  TIRESOME  STORY  203 

laugh.  I  accompany  him  down  to  the  hall.  There  I  help 
my  friend  on  with  his  coat,  but  he  emphatically  declines  so 
great  an  honour.  Then,  when  Yegor  opens  the  door  my 
friend  assures  me  that  I  will  catch  cold,  and  I  pretend  to  be 
ready  to  follow  him  into  the  street.  And  when  I  finally 
return  to  my  study  my  face  keeps  smiling  still,  it  must  be 
from  inertia. 

A  little  later  another  ring.  Someone  enters  the  hall, 
spends  a  long  time  taking  off  his  coat  and  coughs.  Yegor 
brings  me  word  that  a  student  has  come.  I  tell  him  to 
show  him  up.  In  a  minute  a  pleasant-faced  young  man  ap 
pears.  For  a  year  we  have  been  on  these  forced  terms 
together.  He  sends  in  abominable  answers  at  examinations, 
and  I  mark  him  gamma.  Every  year  I  have  about  seven 
of  these  people  to  whom,  to  use  the  students'  slang,  "I  give  a 
plough"  or  "haul  them  through."  Those  of  them  who  fail 
because  of  stupidity  or  illness,  usually  bear  their  cross  in 
patience  and  do  not  bargain  with  me;  only  sanguine  temper 
aments,  "open  natures,"  bargain  with  me  and  come  to  my 
house,  people  whose  appetite  is  spoiled  or  who  are  prevented 
from  going  regularly  to  the  opera  by  a  delay  in  their  exam 
inations.  With  the  first  I  am  over-indulgent;  the  second 
kind  I  keep  on  the  run  for  a  year. 

"Sit  down,"  I  say  to  my  guest.  "What  was  it  you  wished 
to  say?" 

"Forgive  me  for  troubling  you,  Professor  .  .  .n  he  begins, 
stammering  and  never  looking  me  in  the  face.  "I  would 
not  venture  to  trouble  you  unless  ...  I  was  up  for  my  ex 
amination  before  you  for  the  fifth  time  .  .  .  and  I  failed.  I 
implore  you  to  be  kind,  and  give  me  a  'satis,'  because  .  .  ." 

The  defence  which  all  idlers  make  of  themselves  is  always 
the  same.  They  have  passed  in  every  other  subject  with 
distinction,  and  failed  only  in  mine,  which  is  all  the  more 
strange  because  they  had  always  studied  my  subject  most 
diligently  and  know  it  thoroughly.  They  failed  through 
some  inconceivable  misunderstanding. 

"Forgive  me,  my  friend,"  I  say  to  my  guest.     "But  I 


ao4  ROTHSCHILD'S  FIDDLE 

can't  give  you  a  'satis' — impossible.     Go  and  read  your  leo 
tares  again,  and  then  come.    Then  we'll  see." 

Pause.  I  get  a  desire  to  torment  the  student  a  little,  be 
cause  he  prefers  beer  and  the  opera  to  science;  and  I  say 
with  a  sigh: 

"In  my  opinion,  the  best  thing  for  you  now  is  to  give 
up  the  Faculty  of  Medicine  altogether.  With  your  abilities, 
if  you  find  it  impossible  to  pass  the  examination,  then  it 
seems  you  have  neither  the  desire  nor  the  vocation  to  be  a 
doctor." 

My  sanguine  friend's  face  grows  grave. 
"Excuse   me,    Professor,"   he   smiles,   "but   it   would   be 
strange,  to  say  the  least,  on  my  part.     Studying  medicine 
for  five  years  and  suddenly — to  throw  it  over." 

"Yes,  but  it's  better  to  waste  five  years  than  to  spend  your 
whole  life  afterwards  in  an  occupation  which  you  dis 
like." 

Immediately  I  begin  to  feel  sorry  for  him  and  hasten  to 
say: 

"Well,  do  as  you  please.     Read  a  little  and  come  again." 
"When?"  the  idler  asks,  dully. 
"Whenever  you  like.    To-morrow,  even." 
And  I  read  in  his  pleasant  eyes.     "I  can  come  again;  but 
you'll  send  me  away  again,  you  beast." 

"Of  course,"  I  say,  "you  won't  become  more  learned  be 
cause  you  have  to  come  up  to  me  fifteen  times  for  examina 
tion;  but  this  will  form  your  character.  You  must  be 
thankful  for  that." 

Silence.  I  rise  and  wait  for  my  guest  to  leave.  But 
he  stands  there,  looking  at  the  window,  pulling  at  his  little 
beard  and  thinking.  It  becomes  tedious. 

My  sanguine  friend  has  a  pleasant,  succulent  voice,  clever, 
amusing  eyes,  a  good-natured  face,  rather  puffed  by  assiduity 
to  beer  and  much  resting  on  the  sofa.  Evidently  he  could 
tell  me  many  interesting  things  about  the  opera,  about  his 
love  affairs,  about  the  friends  he  adores;  but,  unfortunately, 
it  is  not  the  thing.  And  I  would  so  eagerly  listen! 


A  TIRESOME  STORY  205 

"On  my  word  of  honour,  Professor,  if  you  give  me  a  Satis5 
111  .  .  ." 

As  soon  as  it  gets  to  "my  word  of  honour,"  I  wave  my 
hands  and  sit  down  to  the  table.  The  student  thinks  for  a 
while  and  says,  dejectedly: 

aln  that  case,  good-bye  .  .  .  Forgive  me!" 

"Good-bye,  my  friend  .  .  .  Good-bye!" 

He  walks  irresolutely  into  the  hall,  slowly  puts  on  his  coat, 
and,  when  he  goes  into  the  street,  probably  thinks  again  for 
a  long  while;  having  excogitated  nothing  better  than  "old 
devil"  for  me,  he  goes"1:o^~Hieap  restaurant  to  drink  beer 
and  dine,  and  then  home  to  sleep.  Peace  be  to  your  ashes, 
honest  labourer! 

A  third  ring.  Enters  a  young  doctor  in  a  new  black 
suit,  gold-rimmed  spectacles  and  the  inevitable  white  necktie. 
He  introduces  himself.  I  ask  him  to  take  a  seat  and  inquire 
his  business.  The  young  priest  of  science  begins  to  tell  me, 
not  without  agitation,  that  he  passed  his  doctor's  examina 
tion  this  year,  and  now  has  only  to  write  his  dissertation. 
He  would  like  to  work  with  me,  under  my  guidance;  and  I 
would  do  him  a  great  kindness  if  I  would  suggest  a  subject 
for  his  dissertation. 

"I  should  be  delighted  to  be  of  use  to  you,  mon  cher 
confrere,"  I  say.  "But  first  of  all,  let  us  come  to  an  agree 
ment  as  to  what  is  a  dissertation.  Generally  we  understand 
by  this,  work  produced  as  the  result  of  an  independent  crea 
tive  power.  Isn't  that  so?  But  a  work  written  on  another's 
subject,  under  another's  guidance,  has  a  different  name." 

The  aspirant  is  silent.  I  fire  up  and  jump  out  of  my  seat. 
"Why  do  you  all  come  to  me?  I  can't  understand,"  I  cry 
out  angrily.  "Do  I  keep  a  shop?  I  don't  sell  theses  across 
the  counter.  For  the  one  thousandth  time  I  ask  you  all  to 
leave  me  alone.  Forgive  my  rudeness,  but  I've  got  tired  of 
it  at  last!" 

The  aspirant  is  silent.  Only,  a  tinge  of  colour  shows  on  his 
cheek.  His  face  expresses  his  profound  respect  for  my 
famous  name  and  my  erudition,  but  I  see  in  his  eyes  that  he 


206  ROTHSCHILD'S  FIDDLE 

despises  my  voice,  my  pitiable  figure,  my  nervous  gestures. 
When  I  am  angry  I  seem  to  him  a  very  queer  fellow. 

"I  do  not  keep  a  shop,"  I  storm.  "It's  an  amazing  busi 
ness!  Why  don't  you  want  to  be  independent?  Why  do  you 
find  freedom  so  objectionable?" 

I  say  a  great  deal,  but  he  is  silent.  At  last  by  degrees  I 
grow  calm,  and,  of  course,  surrender.  The  aspirant  will  re 
ceive  a  valueless  subject  from  me,  will  write  under  my  obser 
vation  a  needless  thesis,  will  pass  his  tedious  disputation  cum 
laude  and  will  get  a  useless  and  learned  degree. 

The  rings  follow  in  endless  succession,  but  here  I  confine 
myself  to  four.  The  fourth  ring  sounds,  and  I  hear  the 
familiar  steps,  the  rustling  dress,  the  dear  voice. 

Eighteen  years  ago  my  dear  friend,  the  oculist,  died  and 
left  behind  him  a  seven  year  old  daughter,  Katy,  and  sixty 
thousand  rubles.  By  his  will  he  made  me  guardian.  Katy 
lived  in  my  family  till  she  was  ten.  Afterwards  she  was 
sent  to  College  and  lived  with  me  only  in  her  holidays  in  the 
summer  months.  I  had  no  time  to  attend  to  her  education. 
I  watched  only  by  fits  and  starts;  so  that  I  can  say  very 
little  about  her  childhood. 

The  chief  thing  I  remember,  the  one  I  love  to  dwell  upon 
in  memory,  is  the  extraordinary  confidence  which  she  had 
when  she  entered  my  house,  when  she  had  to  have  the 
doctor, — a  confidence  which  was  always  shining  in  her  dar 
ling  face.  She  would  sit  in  a  corner  somewhere  with  her  face 
tied  up,  and  would  be  sure  to  be  absorbed  in  watching  some 
thing.  Whether  she  was  watching  me  write  and  read  books, 
or  my  wife  bustling  about,  or  the  cook  peeling  the  potatoes 
in  the  kitchen  or  the  dog  playing  about — her  eyes  invariably 
expressed  the  same  thing:  "Everything  that  goes  on  in  this 
world, — everything  is  beautiful  and  clever."  She  was  inquisi 
tive  and  adored  to  talk  to  me.  She  would  sit  at  the  table 
opposite  me,  watching  my  movements  and  asking  questions. 
She  is  interested  to  know  what  I  read,  what  I  do  at  the 
University,  if  I'm  not  afraid  of  corpses,  what  I  do  with  my 
money. 


A  TIRESOME  STORY  207 

"Do  the  students  fight  at  the  University?"  she  would 
ask. 

"They  do,  my  dear." 

"You  make  them  go  down  on  their  knees?" 

"I  do." 

And  it  seemed  funny  to  her  that  the  students  fought  and 
that  I  made  them  go  down  on  their  knees,  and  she  laughed. 
She  was  a  gentle,  good,  patient  child. 

Pretty  often  I  happened  to  see  how  something  was  taken 
away  from  her,  or  she  was  unjustly  punished,  or  her  curi 
osity  was  not  satisfied.  At  such  moments  sadness  would  be 
added  to  her  permanent  expression  of  confidence — nothing 
more.  I  didn't  know  how  to  take  her  part,  but  when  I  saw 
her  sadness,  I  always  had  the  desire  to  draw  her  close  to  me 
and  comfort  her  in  an  old  nurse's  voice:  "My  darling  little 
orphan!" 

I  remember  too  she  loved  to  be  well  dressed  and  to  sprinkle 
herself  with  scents.  In  this  she  was  like  me.  I  also  love 
good  clothes  and  fine  scents. 

I  regret  that  I  had  neither  the  time  nor  the  inclination  to 
watch  the  beginnings  and  the  growth  of  the  passion  which 
had  completely  taken  hold  of  Katya  when  she  was  no  more 
than  fourteen  or  fifteen.  I  mean  her  passionate  love  for  the 
theatre.  When  she  used  to  come  from  the  College  for  her 
holidays  and  live  with  us,  nothing  gave  her  such  pleasure  and 
enthusiasm  to  talk  about  as  plays  and  actors.  She  used  to 
tire  us  with  her  incessant  conversation  about  the  theatre.  I 
alone  hadn't  the  courage  to  deny  her  my  attention.  My  wife 
and  children  did  not  listen  to  her.  When  she  felt  the  desire 
to  share  her  raptures  she  would  come  to  my  study  and 
coax: 

"Nikolay  Stepanvich,  do  let  me  speak  to  you  about  the 
theatre." 

I  used  to  show  her  the  time  and  say: 
"I'll  give  you  half  an  hour.    Fire  away!" 
Later  on  she  used  to  bring  in  pictures  of  the  actors  and 
actresses   she  worshipped — whole   dozens   of   them.     Then 


A  oft  ROTHSCHILD'S  FIDDLE 

several  times  she  tried  to  take  part  in  amateur  theatricals, 
and  finally  when  she  left  College  she  declared  to  me  she  was 
born  to  be  an  actress. 

I  never  shared  Katya's  enthusiasms  for  the  theatre.  My 
opinion  is  that  if  a  play  is  good  then  there's  no  need  to 
trouble  the  actors  for  it  to  make  the  proper  impression;  you 
can  be  satisfied  merely  by  reading  it.  If  the  play  is  bad, 
no  acting  will  make  it  good. 

When  I  was  young  I  often  went  to  the  theatre,  and  nowa 
days  my  family  takes  a  box  twice  a  year  and  carries  me  off 
for  an  airing  there.  Of  course  this  is  not  enough  to  give  me 
the  right  to  pass  verdicts  on  the  theatre;  but  I  will  say  a 
few  words  about  it.  In  my  opinion  the  theatre  hasn't  im 
proved  in  the  last  thirty  or  forty  years.  I  can't  find  any 
more  than  I  did  then,  a  glass  of  clean  water,  either  in  the 
corridors  or  the  foyer.  Just  as  they  did  then,  the  attend 
ants  fine  me  sixpence  for  my  coat,  though  there's  nothing 
illegal  in  wearing  a  warm  coat  in  winter.  Just  as  it  did 
then,  the  orchestra  plays  quite  unnecessarily  in  the  intervals, 
and  adds  a  new,  gratuitous  impression  to  the  one  received 
from  the  play.  Just  as  they  did  then,  men  go  to  the  bar 
in  the  intervals  and  drink  spirits.  If  there  is  no  perceptible 
improvement  in  little  things,  it  will  be  useless  to  look  for  it 
7n  the  bigger  things.  When  an  actor,  hide-bound  in  theatri 
cal  traditions  and  prejudices,  tries  to  read  simple  straight 
forward  monologue:  "To  be  or  not  to  be,"  not  at  all  simply, 
but  with  an  incomprehensible  and  inevitable  hiss  and  con 
vulsions  over  his  whole  body,  or  when  he  tries  to  convince 
me  that  Chatzky,  who  is  always  talking  to  fools  and  is 
in  love  with  a  fool,  is  a  very  clever  man  and  that  "The  Sor 
rows  of  Knowledge"  is  not  a  boring  play, — then  I  get  from 
the  stage  a  breath  of  the  same  old  routine  that  exasperated 
me  forty  years  ago  when  I  was  regaled  with  classical  lamen 
tation  and  beating  on  the  breast.  Every  time  I  come  out 
of  the  theatre  a  more  thorough  conservative  than  I  went  in. 

It's  quite  possible  to  convince  the  sentimental,  self-confi 
dent  crowd  that  the  theatr*  in  its  nresenc  state  is  an  educa- 


A  TIRESOME  STORY  209 

tion.  But  not  a  man  who  knows  what  true  education  is 
would  swallow  this.  I  don't  know  what  it  may  be  in  fifty 
or  a  hundred  years,  but  under  present  conditions  the  theatre 
can  only  be  a  recreation.  But  the  recreation  is  too  expensive 
for  continual  use,  and  robs  the  country  of  thousands  of  young, 
healthy,  gifted  men  and  women,  who  if  they  had  not  devoted 
themselves  to  the  theatre  would  be  excellent  doctors,  farm 
ers,  school  mistresses,  or  officers.  It  robs  the  public  of  its 
evenings,  the  best  time  for  intellectual  work  and  friendly 
conversation.  I  pass  over  the  waste  of  money  and  the  moral 
injuries  to  the  spectator  when  he  sees  ^urder,  adultery,  or  ' 
slander  wrongly  treated  on  the  stage. 

But  Katya's  opinion  was  '.(uil  the  .opposite.  She  assured 
me  that  even  in  its  present  sta*  the  theatre  is  above  lecture- 
rooms  and  books,  above  everything  else  in  the  world.  The 
theatre  is  a  power  &<**  unites  in  itself  all  the  arts,  and  the 
actors  are  men  -with  <  .  ission.  No  separate  art  or  science 
can  act  on  the  human  soul  so  strongly  and  truly  as  the  stage ; 
and  therefore  it  is  reasonable  that  a  medium  actor  should 
enjoy  much  greater  popularity  than  the  finest  scholar  or 
painter.  No  public  activity  ;an  give  such  delight  and  satis 
faction  as  the  theatrical. 

So  one  fine  day  Katya  joined  a  theatrical  company  and 
went  away,  I  believe,  to  Ufa,  taking  with  her  a  lot  of  money, 
a  bagful  of  rainbow  hopes,  and  some  very  high-class  views 
on  the  business. 

Her  first  letters  on  the  journey  were  wonderful.  When  * 
read  them  I  was  simply  amazed  that  little  sheets  of  paper 
could  contain  so  much  youth,  such  transparent  purity,  such 
divine  innocence,  and  at  the  same  time  so  many  subtle,  sen 
sible  judgments,  that  would  do  honour  to  a  sound  masculine 
intelligence.  The  Volga,  nature,  the  towns  she  visited,  her 
friends,  her  successes  and  failures — she  did  not  write  about 
them,  she  sang.  Every  line  breathed  the  confidence  which 
I  used  to  see  in  her  face;  and  with  all  this  a  mass  of  gram 
matical  mistakes  and  hardly  a  single  step. 

Scarce  six  months  passed  before  I  received  a  highly  ooet- 


2io  ROTHSCHILD'S  FIDDLE 

ical  enthusiastic  letter,  beginning,  "I  have  fallen  in  love." 
She  enclosed  a  photograph  of  a  young  man  with  a  clean 
shaven  face,  in  a  broad-brimmed  hat,  with  a  plaid  thrown 
over  his  shoulders.  The  next  letters  were  just  as  splendid, 
but  stops  already  began  to  appear  and  the  grammatical  mis 
takes  to  vanish.  They  had  a  strong  masculine  scent.  Katya 
began  to  write  about  what  a  good  thing  it  would  be  to  build 
a  big  theatre  somewhere  in  the  Volga,  but  on  a  cooperative 
basis,  and  to  attract  the  rich  business-men  and  shipowners 
to  the  undertaking.  There  would  be  plenty  of  money,  huge 
receipts,  and  the  actors  would  work  in  partnership.  .  .  .  Per 
haps  all  this  is  really  a  good  thing,  but  I  can't  help  think 
ing  such  schemes  could  only  come  from  a  man's  head. 

Anyhow  for  eighteen  months  or  a  couple  of  years  every 
thing  seemed  to  be  all  right.  Katya  was  in  love,  had  her 
heart  in  her  business  and  was  happy.  But  later  on  I  began 
to  notice  clear  symptoms  of  a  decline  in  her  letters.  It  began 
with  Katya  complaining  about  her  friends.  This  is  the  first 
and  most  ominous  sign.  If  a  young  scholar  or  litterateur 
begins  his  career  by  complaining  bitterly  about  other  schol 
ars  or  litterateurs,  it  means  that  he  is  tired  already  and  not 
fit  for  his  business.  Katya  wrote  to  me  that  her  friends 
would  not  come  to  rehearsals  and  never  knew  their  parts; 
that  they  showed  an  utter  contempt  for  the  public  in  the 
absurd  plays  they  staged  and  the  manner  they  behaved.  To 
swell  the  box-office  receipts — the  only  topic  of  conversation 
— serious  actresses  degrade  themselves  by  singing  sentimen 
talities,  and  tragic  actors  sing  music-hall  songs,  laughing  at 
husbands  who  are  deceived  and  unfaithful  wives  who  are 
pregnant.  In  short,  it  was  amazing  that  the  profession,  in 
the  provinces,  was  not  absolutely  dead.  The  marvel  was 
that  it  could  exist  at  all  with  such  thin,  rotten  blood  in  its 
veins. 

In  reply  I  sent  Katya  a  long  and,  I  confess,  a  very  tedious 
letter.  Among  other  things  I  wrote:  "I  used  to  talk  fairly 
often  to  actors  in  the  past,  men  of  the  noblest  character, 
who  honoured  me  with  their  friendship.  From  my  conver- 


A  TIRESOME  STORY  21  j 

sations  with  them  I  understood  that  their  activities  weit 
guided  rather  by  the  whim  and  fashion  of  society  than  by 
the  free  working  of  their  own  minds.  The  best  of  them  in 
their  lifetime  had  to  play  in  tragedy,  in  musical  comedy,  in 
French  farce,  and  in  pantomime;  yet  all  through  they  con 
sidered  that  they  were  treading  the  right  path  and  being  use 
ful.  You  see  that  this  means  that  you  must  look  for  the 
cause  of  the  evil,  not  in  the  actors,  but  deeper  down,  in  the 
art  itself  and  the  attitude  of  society  towards  it."  This  letter 
of  mine  only  made  Katya  cross.  "You  and  I  are  playing 
in  different  operas.  I  didn't  write  to  you  about  men  of  the 
noblest  character,  but  about  a  lot  of  sharks  who  haven't  a 
spark  of  nobility  in  them.  They  are  a  horde  of  savages  who 
came  on  the  stage  only  because  they  wouldn't  be  allowed 
anywhere  else.  The  only  ground  they  have  for  calling  them 
selves  artists  is  their  impudence.  Not  a  single  talent  among 
them,  but  any  number  of  incapables.  drunkards,  intriguers, 
and  slanderers.  I  can't  tell  you  how  bitterly  I  feel  it  that 
the  art  I  love  so  much  is  fallen  into  the  hands  of  people  I 
despise.  It  hurts  me  that  the  best  men  should  be  content 
to  look  at  evil  from  a  distance  and  not  want  to  come  nearer. 
Instead  of  taking  an  active  part,  they  write  ponderous  plati 
tudes  and  useless  sermons.  ..."  and  more  in  the  same 
strain. 

A  little  while  after  I  received  the  following:  "I  have  been 
inhumanly  deceived.  I  can't  go  on  living  any  more.  Do  as 
you  think  fit  with  my  money.  I  loved  you  as  a  father  and 
?:S  my  only  friend.  Forgive  me." 

So  it  appeared  that  he  too  belonged  to  the  horde  of  sav 
ages.  Later  on,  I  gathered  from  various  hints,  that  there 
was  an  attempt  at  suicide.  Apparently,  Katya  tried  to 
poison  herself.  I  think  she  must  have  been  seriously  ill 
afterwards,  for  I  got  the  following  letter  from  Yalta,  where 
most  probably  the  doctors  had  sent  her.  Her  last  letter 
to  me  contained  a  request  that  I  should  send  her  at  Yalta  a 
thousand  rubles,  and  it  ended  with  the  words:  "Forgive  me 
for  writing  such  a  sad  letter.  I  buried  my  baby  yesterday." 


212  ROTHSCHILD'S  FIDDLE 

After  she  had  spent  about  a  year  in  the  Crimea  she  returned 
home. 

She  had  been  traveling  for  about  four  years,  and  during 
these  four  years  I  confess  that  I  occupied  a  strange  and  un 
enviable  position  in  regard  to  her.  When  she  announced  to 
me  that  she  was  going  on  to  the  stage  and  afterwards  wrote 
to  me  about  her  love;  when  the  desire  to  spend  took  hold 
of  her,  as  it  did  periodically,  and  I  had  to  send  her  every 
now  and  then  one  or  two  thousand  rubles  at  her  request; 
when  she  wrote  that  she  intended  to  die,  and  afterwards  that 
her  baby  was  dead, — I  was  at  a  loss  every  time.  All  my 
sympathy  with  her  fate  consisted  in  thinking  hard  and 
writing  long  tedious  letters  which  might  as  well  never  have 
been  written.  But  then  I  was  in  loco  parentis  and  I  loved 
her  as  a  daughter. 

Katya  lives  half  a  mile  away  from  me  now.  She  took  a 
five-roomed  house  and  furnished  it  comfortably,  with  the 
taste  that  was  born  in  her.  If  anyone  were  to  undertake 
to  depict  her  surroundings,  then  the  dominating  mood  of  the 
picture  would  be  indolence.  Soft  cushions,  soft  chairs  for 
her  indolent  body;  carpets  for  her  indolent  feet;  faded,  dim, 
dull  colours  for  her  indolent  eyes;  for  her  indolent  soul,  a 
heap  of  cheap  fans  and  tiny  pictures  on  the  walls,  pictures 
in  which  novelty  of  execution  was  mere  noticeable  than  con 
tent;  plenty  of  little  tables  and  stands,  set  out  with  perfectly 
useless  and  worthless  things,  shapeless  scraps  instead  of  cur 
tains.  ...  All  this,  combined  with  a  horror  of  bright  colours, 
of  symmetry,  and  space,  betokened  a  perversion  of  the  nat 
ural  taste  as  well  as  indolence  of  the  soul.  For  whole  days 
Katya  lies  on  the  sofa  and  reads  books,  mostly  novels  and 
stories.  She  goes  outside  her  house  but  once  in  the  day, 
to  come  and  see  me. 

I  work.  Katya  sits  on  the  sofa  at  my  side.  She  is  silent, 
and  wraps  herself  up  in  her  shawl  as  though  she  were  cold. 
Either  because  she  is  sympathetic  to  me,  or  I  because  I 
had  got  used  to  her  continual  visits  while  she  was  still  a 
little  girl,  her  presence  does  not  prevent  me  from  concentrat- 


A  TIRESOME  STORY  213 

ing  on  my  work.  At  long  intervals  I  ask  her  some  question 
or  other,  mechanically,  and  she  answers  very  curtly;  or, 
for  a  moment's  rest,  I  turn  towards  her  and  watch  how  she 
is  absorbed  in  looking  through  some  medical  review  or  news 
paper.  And  then  I  see  that  the  old  expression  of  confidence 
in  her  face  is  there  no  more.  Her  expression  now  is  cold, 
indifferent,  distracted,  like  that  of  a  passenger  who  has  to 
wait  a  long  while  for  his  train.  She  dresses  as  she  used — • 
well  and  simply,  but  carelessly.  Evidently  her  clothes  and 
her  hair  suffer  not  a  little  from  the  sofas  and  hammocks  on 
which  she  lies  for  days  together.  And  she  is  not  curious  any 
more.  She  doesn't  ask  me  questions  any  more,  as  if  she  had 
experienced  everything  in  life  and  did  not  expect  to  hear 
anything  new. 

About  four  o'clock  there  is  a  sound  of  movement  in  the 
hall  and  the  drawing-room.  It's  Liza  come  back  from  the 
Conservatoire,  bringing  her  friends  with  her.  You  can  hear 
them  playing  the  piano,  trying  their  voices  and  giggling. 
Yegor  is  laying  the  table  in  the  dining-room  and  making  a 
noise  with  the  plates. 

"Good-bye,"  says  Katya.  "I  sha'n't  go  in  to  see  your 
people.  They  must  excuse  me.  I  haven't  time.  Come  and 
see  me." 

When  I  escort  her  into  the  hall,  she  looks  me  over  sternly 
from  head  to  foot,  and  says  in  vexation: 

"You  get  thinner  and  thinner.  Why  don't  you  take  a 
cure?  I'll  go  to  Sergey  Fiodorovich  and  ask  him  to  come. 
You  must  let  him  see  you." 

"It's  not  necessary,  Katya." 

"I  can't  understand  why  your  family  does  nothing. 
They're  a  nice  lot." 

She  puts  on  her  jacket  with  her  rush.  Inevitably,  two  or 
three  hair-pins  fall  out  of  her  careless  hair  on  to  the  floor. 
It's  iuo  much  bother  to  tidy  her  hair  now;  besides  she  is  in  a 
hurry.  She  pushes  the  straggling  strands  of  hair  untidily 
under  her  hat  and  goes  away. 

As  soon  as  I  come  into  the  dining-room,  my  wife  asks: 


214  ROTHSCHILD'S  FIDDLE 

"Was  that  Katya  with  you  just  now?  Why  didn't  she 
come  to  see  us.  It  really  is  extraordinary.  ..." 

"Mamma!"  says  Liza  reproachfully,  "if  she  doesn't  want 
to  come,  that's  her  affair.  There's  no  need  for  us  to  go  on 
our  knees." 

"Very  well;  but  it's  insulting.  To  sit  in  the  study  for 
three  hours,  without  thinking  of  us.  But  she  can  do  as  she 
likes." 

Varya  and  Liza  both  hate  Katya.  This  hatred  is  unin 
telligible  to  me;  probably  you  have  to  be  a  woman  to  under 
stand  it.  I'll  bet  my  life  on  it  that  you'll  hardly  find  a 
single  one  among  the  hundred  and  fifty  young  men  I  see 
almost  every  day  in  my  audience,  or  the  hundred  old  ones  I 
happen  to  meet  every  week,  who  would  be  able  to  understand 
why  women  hate  and  abhor  Katya's  past,  her  being  pregnant 
and  unmarried  and  her  illegitimate  child.  Yet  at  the  same 
time  I  cannot  bring  to  mind  a  single  woman  or  girl  of  my 
acquaintance  who  would  not  cherish  such  feelings,  either 
:onsciously  or  instinctively.  And  it's  not  because  women 
ire  purer  and  more  virtuous  than  men.  If  virtue  and  purity 
are  not  free  from  evil  feeling,  there's  precious  little  difference 
between  them  and  vice.  I  explain  it  simply  by  the  back 
ward  state  of  women's  development.  The  sorrowful  sense 
of  compassion  and  the  torment  of  conscience,  which  the  mod 
ern  man  experiences  when  he  sees  distress  have  much  more 
to  tell  me  about  culture  and  moral  development  than  have 
hatred  and  repulsion.  The  modern  woman  is  as  lachrymose 
and  as  coarse  in  heart  as  she  was  in  the  middle  ages.  And 
in  my  opinion  those  who  advise  her  to  be  educated  like  a 
man  have  wisdom  on  their  side. 

But  still  my  wife  does  not  like  Katya,  because  she  was 
an  actress,  and  for  her  ingratitude,  her  pride,  her  extrava 
gances,  and  all  the  innumerable  vices  one  woman  can  always 
discover  in  another. 

Besides  myself  and  my  family  we  have  two  or  three  of 
my  daughter's  girl  friends  to  dinner  and  Aleksander  Adolf o- 
vich  Gnekker,  Liza's  admirer  and  suitor.  He  is  a  fair  young 


A  TIRESOME  STORY  215 

man,  not  more  than  thirty  years  old,  of  middle  height,  very 
fat,  broad  shouldered,  with  reddish  hair  round  his  ears  and 
a  little  stained  moustache,  which  give  his  smooth  ohubby 
face  the  look  of  a  doll's.  He  wears  a  very  short  jacket,  a 
fancy  waistcoat,  large-striped  trousers,  very  full  on  the  hip 
and  very  narrow  in  the  leg,  and  brown  boots  without  heels. 
His  eyes  stick  out  like  a  lobster's,  his  tie  is  like  a  lobster's 
tail,  and  I  can't  help  thinking  even  that  the  smell  of  lobster 
soup  clings  about  the  whole  of  this  young  man.  He  visits 
us  every  day;  but  no  one  in  the  family  knows  where  he 
comes  from,  where  he  was  educated,  or  how  he  lives.  He 
cannot  play  or  sing,  but  he  has  a  certain  connection  with 
music  as  well  as  singing,  for  he  is  agent  for  somebody's 
pianos,  and  is  often  at  the  Academy.  He  knows  all  the 
celebrities,  and  he  manages  concerts.  He  gives  his  opinion 
on  music  with  great  authority  and  I  have  noticed  that 
everybody  hastens  to  agree  with  him. 

Rich  men  always  have  parasites  about  them.  So  do  the 
sciences  and  the  arts.  It  seems  that  there  is  no  science  or 
art  in  existence,  which  is  free  from  such  "foreign  bodies"  as 
this  Mr.  Gnekker.  I  am  not  a  musician  and  perhaps  I  am 
mistaken  about  Gnekker,  besides  I  don't  know  him  very 
well.  But  I  can't  help  suspecting  the  authority  and  dignity 
with  which  he  stands  beside  the  piano  and  listens  when  any 
one  is  singing  or  playing. 

You  may  be  a  gentleman  and  a  privy  councillor  a  hun 
dred  times  over;  but  if  you  have  a  daughter  you  can't  be 
guaranteed  against  the  pettinesses  that  are  so  often  brought 
into  your  house  and  into  your  own  humour,  by  courtings, 
engagements,  and  weddings.  For  instance,  I  cannot  reconcile 
myself  to  my  wife's  solemn  expression  every  time  Gnekker 
comes  to  our  house,  nor  to  those  bottles  of  Chateau  Lafitte, 
port,  and  sherry  which  are  put  on  the  table  only  for  him,  to 
convince  him  beyond  doubt  of  the  generous  luxury  in  which 
we  live.  Nor  can  I  stomach  the  staccato  laughter  which 
Liza  learned  at  the  Academy,  and  her  way  of  screwing  up 
her  eyes,  when  men  are  about  the  house.  Above  all,  I 


,i6  ROTHSCHILD'S  FIDDLE 

understand  why  it  is  that  such  a  creature  should  come  to 
me  every  day  and  have  dinner  with  me — a  creature  perfectly 
foreign  to  my  habits,  my  science,  and  the  whole  tenour  of 
my  life,  a  creature  absolutely  unlike  -he  men  I  love.  My 
wife  and  the  servants  whisper  mysteriously  that  that  is 
"the  bridegroom,"  but  still  I  can't  understand  why  he's 
there.  It  disturbs  my  mind  just  as  much  as  if  a  Zulu  were 
put  next  to  me  at  table.  Besides,  it  seems  strange  to  me 
that  my  daughter  whom  I  used  to  think  of  as  a  baby  should 
be  in  love  with  that  necktie,  those  eyes,  those  chubby  cheeks. 
Formerly,  I  either  enjoyed  my  dinner  or  was  indifferent 
about  it.  Now  it  does  nothing  but  bore  and  exasperate  me. 
Since  I  was  made  an  Excellency  and  Dean  of  the  Faculty, 
for  some  reason  or  other  my  family  found  it  necessary  to 
make  a  thorough  change  in  our  menu  and  the  dinner  ar 
rangements.  Instead  of  the  simple  food  I  was  used  to  as 
A  student  and  a  doctor,  I  am  now  fed  on  potage-puree,  with 
some  sosulki  swimming  about  in  it,  and  kidneys  in  Madeira. 
The  title  of  General  and  my  renown  have  robbed  me  for 
tver  of  schi  and  savoury  pies,  and  roast  goose  with  apple 
sauce,  and  bream  with  kasha.  They  robbed  me  as  well  of 
my  maid  servant  Agasha,  a  funny,  talkative  old  woman,  in 
stead  of  whom  I  am  now  waited  on  by  Yegor,  a  stupid,  con 
ceited  fellow  who  always  has  a  white  glove  in  his  right  hand. 
The  intervals  between  the  courses  are  short,  but  they  seem 
terribly  long.  There  is  nothing  to  fill  them.  We  don't  have 
any  more  of  the  old  good-humour,  the  familiar  conversations, 
the  jokes  and  the  laughter;  no  more  mutual  endearments,  or 
the  gaiety  that  used  to  animate  my  children,  my  wife,  and 
myself  when  we  met  at  the  dinner  table.  For  a  busy  man  like 
me  dinner  was  a  time  to  rest  and  meet  my  friends,  and  a  feast 
for  my  wife  and  children,  not  a  very  long  feast,  to  be  sure, 
but  a  gay  and  happy  one,  for  they  knew  that  for  half  an 
hour  I  did  not  belong  to  science  and  my  students,  but  solely 
to  them  and  to  no.  one  else.  No  more  chance  of  getting 
tipsy  on  a  single  glass  of  wine,  no  more  Agasha,  no  more 
bream  with  Kasha,  no  more  the  old  uproar  to  welcome  our 


A  TIRESOME  STORY  217 

little  contretemps  at  dinner,  when  the  cat  fought  the  dog 
under  the  fable,  or  Katya's  head-band  fell  down  her  cheek 
into  hei  soup. 

Our  dinner  nowadays  is  as  nasty  to  describe  as  to  eat. 
On  my  wife 's  face  there  is  pompousness,  an  assumed  gravity, 
and  the  usual  anxiety.  Sh^  ^yes  our  nlates  nervously:  "I  see 
you  don't  like  the  meat?  .  .  Honestly,  don't  you  like  it?" 
Ard  I  must  answer,  "Don't  ^vorrv,  my  dear.  The  meat  is 
very  gon^  "  She:  "You're  always  fking  ny  part,  Nikolay 
Stepanych.  You  never  tell  the  truth.  Why  has  Aleksander 
Adolf ovich  eaten  so  little?"  and  the  same  sort  of  conversation 
for  the  whole  of  dinner.  Liza  laughs  staccato  and  screws  up 
her  eyes.  I  look  at  both  of  them,  and  at  this  moment  at 
dinner  here  :  can  see  quite  clearly  that  their  inner  lives 
have  slipped  out  of  my  observation  long  ago.  I  feel  as 
though  once  upon  a  time  I  lived  at  home  with  a  real  family, 
but  now  I  am  dining  as  a  guest  with  an  unreal  wife  and 
looking  at  an  unreal  Liza.  There  has  been  an  utter  change 
in  both  of  them,  while  I  have  lost  sight  of  the  long  process 
that  led  up  to  the  change.  No  wonder  I  don't  understand 
anything.  What  was  the  reason  of  the  change?  I  don't 
know.  Perhaps  the  only  trouble  is  that  God  did  not  give 
my  wife  and  daughter  the  strength  He  gave  me.  From  my 
childhood  I  have  been  accustomed  to  resist  outside  influences 
and  have  been  hardened  enough.  Such  earthly  catastrophes 
as  fame,  being  made  General,  the  change  from  comfort  to 
living  above  my  means,  acquaintance  with  high  society,  have 
scarcely  touched  me.  I  have  survived  safe  and  sound.  But 
it  all  fell  down  like  an  avalanche  on  my  weak,  unhardened 
wife  and  Liza,  and  crushed  them. 

Gnekker  and  the  girls  talk  of  fugues  and  counter-fugues; 
singers  and  pianists,  Bach  and  Brahms,  and  my  wife,  fright 
ened  of  being  suspected  of  musical  ignorance,  smiles  sym 
pathetically  and  murmurs:  "Wonderful  ...  Is  it  possi 
ble?  .  .  .  Why?  ..."  Gnekker  eats  steadily,  jokes  gravely, 
and  listens  condescendingly  to  the  ladies'  remarks.  Now  and 
then  he  has  the  desire  to  talk  bad  French,  and  then  he  finds 


218  ROTHSCHILD'S  FIDDLE 

it  necessary  for  some  unknown  reason  to  address  me  magni 
ficently,  "Votre  Excellence." 

And  I  am  morose.  Apparently  I  embarrass  them  all  and 
they  embarrass  me.  I  never  had  any  intimate  acquaintance 
with  class  antagonism  before,  but  now  something  of  the 
kind  torments  me  indeed.  I  try  to  find  only  bad  traits  in 
Gnekker.  It  does  not  take  long  and  then  I  am  tormented 
because  one  of  my  friends  has  not  taken  his  place  as  bride 
groom.  In  another  way  too  his  presence  has  a  bad  effect 
upon  me.  Usually,  when  I  am  left  alone  with  myself  or 
when  I  am  in  the  company  of  people  I  love,  I  never  think 
of  my  merits;  and  if  I  begin  to  think  about  them  they  seem 
as  trivial  as  though  I  had  become  a  scholar  only  yesterday. 
But  in  the  presence  of  a  man  like  Gnekker  my  merits  appear 
to  me  like  an  extremely  high  mountain,  whose  summit  is 
lost  in  the  clouds,  while  Gnekkers  move  about  the  foot,  so 
small  as  hardly  to  be  seen. 

After  dinner  I  go  up  to  my  study  and  light  my  little  pipe, 
the  only  one  during  the  whole  day,  the  sole  survivor  of  my 
old  habit  of  smoking  from  morning  to  night.  My  wife 
comes  into  me  while  I  am  smoking  and  sits  down  to  speak 
to  me.  Just  as  in  the  morning,  I  know  beforehand  what  the 
conversation  will  be. 

"We  ought  to  talk  seriously,  Nikolay  Stepanych,"  she  be 
gins.  "I  mean  about  Liza.  Why  won't  you  attend?" 

"Attend  to  what?" 

"You  pretend  you  don't  notice  anything.  It's  not  right. 
It's  not  right  to  be  unconcerned.  Gnekker  has  intentions 
about  Liza.  What  do  you  say  to  that?" 

"I  can't  say  he's  a  bad  man,  because  I  don't  know  him; 
but  I've  told  you  a  thousand  times  already  that  I  don't  like 
him." 

"But  that's  impossible  .  .  .  impossible.  .  .  ." 

She  rises  and  walks  about  in  agitation. 

"It's  impossible  to  have  such  an  attitude  to  a  serious  mat 
ter,"  she  says.  "When  our  daughter's  happiness  is  concerned, 
we  must  put  everything  personal  aside.  I  know  you  don't 


A  TIRESOME  STORY  219 

like  him.  .  .  .  Very  well.  .  .  .  But  if  we  refuse  him  now 
and  upset  everything,  how  can  you  guarantee  that  Liza  won't 
have  a  grievance  against  us  for  the  rest  of  her  life?  Heaven 
knows  there  aren't  many  young  men  nowadays.  It's  quite 
likely  there  won't  be  another  chance.  He  loves  Liza  very 
much  and  she  likes  him,  evidently.  Of  course  he  hasn't  a 
settled  position.  But  what  is  there  to  do?  Please  God,  he'll 
get  a  position  in  time.  He  comes  of  a  good  family,  and  he's 
rich." 

"How  did  you  find  that  out?" 

"He  said  so  himself.  His  father  has  a  big  house  in  Khar 
kov  and  an  estate  outside.  You  must  certainly  go  to  Khar 
kov." 

"Why?" 

"You'll  find  out  there.  You  have  acquaintances  among 
the  professors  there.  I'd  go  myself.  But  I'm  a  woman.  I 
can't." 

"I  will  not  go  to  Kharkov,"  I  say  morosely. 

My  wife  gets  frightened;  a  tormented  expression  comes 
over  her  face. 

"For  God's  sake,  Nikolay  Stepanych,"  she  implores,  sob 
bing.  "For  God's  sake  help  me  with  this  burden!  It  hurts 
me." 

It  is  painful  to  look  at  her. 

"Very  well,  Varya,"  I  say  kindly,  "If  you  like — very  well 
111  go  to  Kharkov,  and  do  everything  you  want." 

She  puts  her  handkerchief  to  her  eyes  and  goes  to  cry  in 
her  room.  I  am  left  alone. 

A  little  later  they  bring  in  the  lamp.  The  familiar  shadows 
that  have  wearied  me  for  years  fall  from  the  chairs  and  the 
lamp-shade  on  to  the  walls  and  the  floor.  When  I  look  at 
them  it  seems  that  it's  night  already,  and  the  cursed  insomnia 
has  begun.  I  lie  down  on  the  bed;  then  I  get  up  and  walk 
about  the  room;  then  lie  down  again.  My  nervous  excite 
ment  generally  reaches  its  highest  after  dinner,  before  the 
evening.  For  no  reason  I  begin  to  cry  and  hide  my  head 
in  the  pillow.  All  the  While  I  am  afraid  somebody  may  come 


220  ROTHSCHILD'S  FIDDLE 

in;  I  am  afraid  I  shall  die  suddenly;  I  am  ashamed  of  my 
tears;  altogether,  something  intolerable  is  happening  in  my 
soul.  I  feel  I  cannot  look  at  the  lamp  or  the  books  or  the 
shadows  on  the  floor,  or  listen  to  the  voices  in  the  drawing- 
room  any  more.  Some  invisible,  mysterious  force  pushes  me 
rudely  out  of  my  house.  I  jump  up,  dress  hurriedly,  and  go 
cautiously  out  into  the  street  so  that  the  household  shall  not 
notice  me.  Where  shall  I  go? 

The  answer  to  this  ^    stion  has  long  been  there  in  my 
brain:  "To  Katya," 


ill 

As  usual  she  is  lying  on  the  Turkish  divan  or  the  couch 
and  reading  something.  Seeing  me  she  lifts  ner  head  lan 
guidly,  sits  down,  and  gives  me  her  hand. 

"You  are  always  lying  down  like  that/'  I  say  after  a  re 
poseful  silence,  "It's  unhealthy.  You'd  far  better  be  doing 
something." 

"Ah?" 

"You'd  far  better  be  doing  something,  I  say/' 

"What?  ...  A  woman  can  be  either  a  simple  worker  or 
an  actress." 

"Well,  then — if  you  can't  become  a  worker,  be  an  actress." 

She  is  silent. 

"You  had  better  marry,"  I  say,  half- joking. 

"There's  no  one  to  marry:  and  no  use  if  I  did." 

"You  can't  go  on  living  like  this." 

"Without  a  husband?  As  if  that  mattered.  There  are 
as  many  men  as  you  like,  if  you  only  had  the  will." 

"This  isn't  right,  Katya." 

"What  isn't  right?" 

"What  you  said  just  now." 

Katya  sees  that  I  am  changed,  and  desires  to  soften  the 
bad  impression. 

"Come.    Let's  come  here.    Here." 


A  TIRESOME  STORY  221 

She  leads  me  into  a  small  room,  very  cosy,  and  points  to 
the  writing  table. 

"There.  I  made  it  for  you.  You'll  work  here.  Come 
every  day  and  bring  your  work  with  you.  They  only  disturb 
you  there  at  home.  .  .  .  Will  you  work  here?  Would  you 
like  to?" 

In  order  not  to  hurt  her  by  refusing,  I  answer  that  I  shall 
work  with  her  and  that  I  like  the  room  immensely.  Then 
we  both  sit  down  in  the  cosy  room  and  begin  to  talk. 

The  warmth,  the  cosy  surroundings,  the  presence  of  a 
sympathetic  being,  rouses  in  me  now  not  a  feeling  of  pleas 
ure  as  it  used  but  a  strong  desire  to  complain  and  grumble. 
Anyhow  it  seems  to  me  that  if  I  moan  and  complain  I  shall 
feel  better. 

"It's  a  bad  business,  my  dear,"  I  begin  with  a  sigh.  "Very 
bad." 

"What  is  the  matter?" 

"I'll  tell  you  what  is  the  matter.  The  best  and  most » 
sacred  right  of  kings  is  the  right  to  pardon.  And  I  have 
always  felt  myself  a  king  so  long  as  I  used  this  right  prodi 
gally.  I  never  judged,  I  was  compassionate,  I  pardoned  • 
everyone  right  and  left.  When  others  protested  and  revolted 
I  only  advised  and  persuaded.  All  my  life  I've  tried  to 
make  my  society  tolerable  to  the  family  of  students,  friends 
and  servants.  And  this  attitude  of  mine  towards  people,  I 
know,  educated  every  one  who  came  into  contact  with  me. 
But  now  I  am  king  no  more.  There's  something  going  on  in  • 
me  which  belongs  only  to  slaves.  Day  and  night  evil 
thoughts  roam  about  in  my  head,  and  feelings  which  I  never 
knew  before  have  made  their  home  in  my  soul.  I  hate  and 
despise;  I'm  exasperated,  disturbed,  and  afraid.  I've  be 
come  strict  beyond  measure,  exacting,  unkind,  and  suspicious. 
Even  the  things  which  in  the  past  gave  me  the  chance  of 
making  an  extra  pun,  now  bring  me  a  feeling  of  oppression. 
My  logic  has  changed  too.  I  used  to  despise  money  alone; 
now  I  cherish  evil  feelings,  not  to  memory,  but  to  the  rich, 
is  if  they  were  guilty.  I  used  to  hate  violence  and  arbi- 


222  ROTHSCHILD'S  FIDDLE 

trariness;  now  I  hate  the  people  who  employ  violence,  as  if 
they  alone  are  to  blame  and  not  all  of  us,  who  cannot  educate 
one  another.  What  does  it  all  mean?  If  my  new  thoughts 
and  feelings  come  from  a  change  of  my  convictions,  where 
could  the  change  have  come  from?  Has  the  world  grown 
worse  and  I  better,  or  was  I  blind  and  indifferent  before? 
But  if  the  change  is  due  to  the  general  decline  of  my  physi 
cal  and  mental  powers — I  am  sick  and  losing  weight  every 
day — tl  en  I'm  in  a  pitiable  position.  It  means  that  my 
new  thoughts  are  abnormal  and  unhealthy,  that  I  must  be 
ashamed  of  them  and  consider  them  valueless.  ..." 

"Sickness  hasn't  anything  to  do  with  it,"  Katya  interrupts. 

*  "Your  eyes  are  opened — that's  all.    You've  begun  to  notice 

things  you  didn't  want  to  notice  before  for  some  reason. 

My  opinion  is  that  you  must  break  with  your  family  finally 

first  of  all  and  then  go  away." 

"You're  talking  nonsense." 

"You  don't  love  them  any  more.  Then,  why  do  you  be 
have  unfairly?  And  is  it  a  family!  Mere  nobodies.  If 
they  died  to-day,  no  one  would  notice  their  absence  to 
morrow." 

Katya  despises  my  wife  and  daughter  as  much  as  they 
hate  her.  It's  scarcely  possible  nowadays  to  speak  of  the 
right  of  people  to  despise  one  another.  But  if  you  accept 
Katya 's  point  of  view  and  own  that  such  a  right  exists,  you 
will  notice  that  she  has  the  same  right  to  despise  my  wife 
and  Liza  as  they  have  to  hate  her. 

"Mere  nobodies!"  she  repeats.  "Did  you  have  any  din 
ner  to-day?  It's  a  wonder  they  didn't  forget  to  tell  you 
dinner  was  ready.  I  don't  know  how  they  still  remember  that 
you  exist." 

"Katya!"  I  say  sternly.    "Please  be  quiet." 

"You  don't  think  it's  fun  for  me  to  talk  about  them,  do 
you?  I  wish  I  didn't  know  them  at  all.  You  listen  to  me, 
dear.  Leave  everything  and  go  away:  go  abroad — the 
quicker,  the  better." 

"What  nonsense!     What  about  the  University?" 


A  TIRESOME  STORY  223 

"And  the  University,  too.  What  is  it  to  you?  There's 
no  sense  in  it  all.  You've  been  lecturing  for  thirty  years, 
and  where  are  your  pupils?  Have  you  many  famous  schol 
ars?  Count  them  up.  But  to  increase  the  number  of  doc 
tors  who  exploit  the  general  ignorance  and  make  hundreds 
of  thousands, — there's  no  need  to  be  a  good  and  gifted  man. 
You  aren't  wanted." 

"My  God,  how  bitter  you  are!"  I  get  terrified.  "How 
bitter  you  are.  Be  quiet,  or  I'll  go  away.  I  can't  reply  to 
the  bitter  things  you  say." 

The  maid  enters  and  calls  us  to  tea.  Thank  God,  our 
conversation  changes  round  the  samovar.  I  have  made  my 
moan,  and  now  I  want  to  indulge  another  senile  weakness — 
reminiscences.  I  tell  Katya  about  my  past,  to  my  great  sur 
prise  with  details  that  I  never  suspected  I  had  kept  safe  in 
my  memory.  And  she  listens  to  me  with  emotion,  with 
pride,  holding  her  breath.  I  like  particularly  to  tell  how  I 
once  was  a  student  at  a  seminary  and  how  I  dreamed  of  en 
tering  the  University. 

"I  used  to  walk  in  the  seminary  garden,"  I  tell  her,  "and 
the  wind  would  bring  the  sound  of  a  song  and  the  thrum 
ming  of  an  accordion  from  a  distant  tavern,  or  a  troika  with 
bells  would  pass  quickly  by  the  seminary  fence.  That  would 
be  quite  enough  to  fill  not  only  my  breast  with  a  sense  of 
happiness,  but  my  stomach,  legs,  and  hands.  As  I  heard  the 
sound  of  the  accordion  or  the  bells  fading  away,  I  would  see 
myself  a  doctor  and  paint  pictures,  one  more  glorious  than 
another.  And,  you  see,  my  dreams  came  true.  There  were 
many  more  things  I  dared  to  dream  of.  I  have  been  a 
favourite  professor  thirty  years,  I  have  had  excellent  friends 
and  an  honourable  reputation.  I  loved  and  married  when 
I  was  passionately  in  love.  I  had  children.  Altogether,  when 
I  look  back  the  whole  of  my  life  seems  like  a  nice,  clever 
composition.  The  only  thing  I  have  to  do  now  is  not  to 
spoil  the  finale.  For  this,  I  must  die  like  a  man.  If  death 
is  really  a  danger  then  I  must  meet  it  as  becomes  a  teacher, 
a  scholar,  and  a  citizen  of  a  Christian  State.  But  I  am  spoil- 


224  ROTHSCHILD'S  FIDDLE 

ing  the  finale.  I  am  drowning,  and  I  run  to  you  and  beg 
for  help,  and  you  say:  'Drown.  It's  your  duty.'  " 

At  this  point  a  ring  at  the  bell  sounds  in  the  hall.  Katya 
and  I  both  recognise  it  and  say: 

"That  must  be  Mikhail  Fiodorovich." 

And  indeed  in  a  minute  Mikhail  Fiodorovich,  my  colleague, 
the  philologist,  enters.  He  is  a  tall,  well-built  man  about 
fifty  years  old,  clean  shaven,  with  thick  grey  hair  and  black 
eyebrows.  He  is  a  good  man  and  an  admirable  friend.  He 
belongs  to  an  old  aristocratic  family,  a  prosperous  and  gifted 
house  which  has  played  a  notable  role  in  the  history  of  our 
literature  and  education.  He  himself  is  clever,  gifted,  and 
highly  educated,  but  not  without  his  eccentricities.  To  a 
certain  extent  we  are  all  eccentric,  queer  fellows,  but  his  ec 
centricities  have  an  element  of  the  exceptional,  not  quite  safe 
for  his  friends.  Among  the  latter  I  know  not  a  few  who  can 
not  see  his  many  merits  clearly  because  of  his  eccentricities. 

As  he  walks  in  he  slowly  removes  his  gloves  and  says  in 
his  velvety  bass: 

"How  do  you  do?  Drinking  tea.  Just  in  time.  It's 
hellishly  cold." 

Then  he  sits  down  at  the  table,  takes  a  glass  of  tea  and 
immediately  begins  to  talk.  What  chiefly  marks  his  way 
of  talking  is  his  invariably  ironical  tone,  a  mixture  of  philos 
ophy  and  jest,  like  Shakespeare's  grave-diggers.  He  always 
talks  of  serious  matters;  but  never  seriously.  His  opinions 
are  always  acid  and  provocative,  but  thanks  to  his  tender, 
easy,  jesting  tone,  it  sometimes  happens  that  his  acidity  and 
provocativeness  don't  tire  one's  ears,  and  one  very  soon  gets 
used  to  it.  Every  evening  he  brings  along  some  half-dozen 
stories  of  the  university  life  and  generally  begins  with  them 
when  he  sits  down  at  the  table. 

"O  Lord,"  he  sighs  with  an  amusing  movement  of  his  black 
eyebrows,  "there  are  some  funny  people  in  the  world." 

"Who?"  asks  Katya. 

''I  was  coming  down  after  my  lecture  to-day  and  I  met 
that  old  idiot  N on  the  stairs.  He  walks  alons.  as 


A  TIRESOME  STORY  225 

usual  pushing  out  that  horse  jowl  of  his,  looking  for  some 
one  to  bewail  his  headaches,  his  wife,  and  his  students,  who 
won't  come  to  his  lectures.  'Well,'  I  think  to  myself,  'he's 
seen  me.  It's  all  up — no  hope  for  me.  .  .  ." 

And  so  on  in  the  same  strain.    Or  he  begins  like  this, 

"Yesterday  I  was  at  Z's  public  lecture.  Tell  it  not  in 
Gath,  but  I  do  wonder  how  our  alma  mater  dares  to  show 
the  public  such  an  ass,  such  a  double-dyed  blockhead  as  Z. 
Why  he's  a  European  fool.  Good  Lord,  you  won't  find  one 
like  him  in  all  Europe — not  even  if  you  looked  in  daytime, 
and  with  a  lantern.  Imagine  it:  he  lectures  as  though  he 
were  sucking  a  stick  of  barley-sugar — su — su — su.  He  gets 
a  fright  because  he  can't  make  out  his  manuscript.  His 
little  thoughts  will  only  just  keep  moving,  hardly  moving,  like 
a  bishop  riding  a  bicycle.  Above  all  you  can't  make  out  a 
word  he  says.  The  flies  die  of_boredom^  it's  so  terrific.  It 
can  only  be  compared  wiQTthe  boredom  in  the  great  Hall  at 
the  Commemoration,  when  the  traditional  speech  is  made. 
To  hell  with  it!" 

Immediately  an  abrupt  change  of  subject. 

"I  had  to  make  the  speech;  three  years  ago.  Nikolay 
Stepanych  will  remember.  It  was  hot,  close.  My  full  uni 
form  was  tight  under  my  arms,  tight  as  death.  I  read  for 
half  an  hour,  an  hour,  an  hour  and  a  half,  two  hours.  'Well,'' 
I  thought,  'thank  God  I've  only  ten  pages  left.'  And  I  had 
four  pages  of  peroration  that  I  needn't  read  at  all.  'Only 
six  pages  tiien/ll}iougnt7  Imagine  it.  I  just  gave  a  glancf 
in  front  of  me  and  saw  sitting  next  to  each  other  in  the 
front  row  a  general  with  a  broad  ribbon  and  a  bishop.  The 
poor  devils  were  bored  stiff.  They  were  staring  about  madly 
to  stop  themselves  from  going  to  sleep.  For  all  that  they 
are  still  trying  to  look  attentive,  to  make  some  appearance 
of  understanding  what  I'm  reading,  and  look  as  though  they 
like  it.  'Well,'  I  thought,  'if  you  like  it,  then  you  shall  have 
it.  I'll  spite  you.'  So  I  set  to  and  read  the  four  pages,  every 
word." 

When  he  speaks  only  his  eyes  and  eyebrows  smile  as  it  is 


226  ROTHSCHILD'S  FIDDLE 

generally  with  the  ironical.  At  such  moments  there  is  no 
hatred  or  malice  in  his  eyes  but  a  great  deal  of  acuteness 
and  that  peculiar  fox-cunning  which  you  can  catch  only 
in  very  observant  people.  Further,  about  his  eyes  I  have 
noticed  one  more  peculiarity.  When  he  takes  his  glass  from 
Katya,  or  listens  to  her  remarks  or  follows  her  with  a  glance 
as  she  goes  out  of  the  room  for  a  little  while,  then  I  catch 
in  his  look  something  humble,  prayerful,  pure.  .  .  . 

The  maid  takes  the  samovar  away  and  puts  on  the  table 
a  big  piece  of  cheese,  some  fruit,  and  a  bottle  of  Crimean 
champagne,  a  thoroughly  bad  wine  which  Katya  got  to  like 
when  she  lived  in  the  Crimea.  Mikhail  Fiodorvich  takes  two 
packs  of  cards  from  the  shelves  and  sets  them  out  for  pa 
tience.  If  one  may  believe  his  assurances,  some  games  of 
patience  demand  a  great  power  of  combination  and  concen 
tration.  Nevertheless  while  he  sets  out  the  cards  he  amuses 
himself  by  talking  continually.  Katya  follows  his  cards  care 
fully,  helping  him  more  by  mimicry  than  words.  In  the 
whole  evening  she  drinks  no  more  than  two  small  glasses 
of  wine,  I  drink  only  a  quarter  of  a  glass,  the  remainder  of 
the  bottle  falls  to  Mikhail  Fiodorovich,  who  can  drink  any 
amount  without  ever  getting  drunk. 

During  patience  we  solve  all  kinds  of  questions,  mostly 
of  the  lofty  order,  and  our  dearest  love,  science,  comes  off 
second  best. 

"Science,  thank  God,  has  had  her  day,"  says  Mikhail 
Fiodorovich  very  slowly.  "She  has  had  her  swan-song. 
Ye-es.  Mankind  has  begun  to  feel  the  desire  to  replace  her 
by  something  else.  She  was  grown  from  the  soil  of  preju 
dice,  fed  by  prejudices,  and  is  now  the  same  quintessence  of 
prejudices  as  were  her  bygone  grandmothers:  alchemy,  meta 
physics  and  philosophy.  As  between  European  scholars  and 
the  Chinese  who  have  no  sciences  at  all  the  difference  is 
merely  trifling,  a  matter  only  of  externals.  The  Chinese  had 
no  scientific  knowledge,  but  what  have  they  lost  by  that?" 

"Flies  haven't  any  scientific  knowledge  either,"  I  say; 
"but  what  does  that  prove?" 


A  TIRESOME  STORY  227 

"It's  no  use  getting  angry,  Nikolay  Stepanych.  I  say  this 
only  between  ourselves.  I'm  more  cautious  than  you  think. 
I  sha'n't  proclaim  it  from  the  housetops,  God  forbid!  The 
masses  still  keep  alive  a  prejudice  that  science  and  art  are 
superior  to  agriculture  and  commerce,  superior  to  crafts. 
Our  persuasion  makes  a  living  from  this  prejudice.  It's  not 
for  you  and  me  to  destroy  it.  God  forbid!" 

During  patience  the  younger  generation  also  comes  in  for 
it. 

"Our  public  is  degenerate  nowadays,"  Mikhail  Fiodoro- 
vich  sighs.  "I  don't  speak  of  ideals  and  such  things,  I  onh 
ask  that  they  should  be  able  to  work  and  think  decently 
'Sadly  1  look  at  the  men  of  our  time' — it's  quite  true  in  this 
connection." 

"Yes,  they're  frightfully  degenerate,"  Katya  agrees.  "Tell 
me,  had  you  one  single  eminent  person  under  you  during  the 
last  five  or  ten  years?" 

"I  don't  know  how  it  is  with  the  other  professors, — but 
somehow  I  don't  recollect  that  it  ever  happened  to  me." 

"In  my  lifetime  I've  seen  a  great  many  of  your  students 
and  young  scholars,  a  great  many  actors.  .  .  .  What  hap 
pened?  I  never  once  had  the  luck  to  meet,  not  a  hero  or 
a  man  of  talent,  but  an  ordinarily  interesting  person.  Every 
thing's  dull  and  incapable,  sv/ollen  and  pretentious.  ..." 

All  these  conversations  about  degeneracy  give  me  always 
the  impression  that  I  have  unwittingly  overheard  an  un 
pleasant  conversation  about  my  daughter.  I  feel  offended 
because  the  indictments  are  made  wholesale  and  are  based 
upon  such  ancient  hackneyed  commonplaces  and  such  penny- 
dreadful  notions  as  degeneracy,  lack  of  ideals,  or  compari 
sons  with  the  glorious  past.  Any  indictment,  even  if  it's 
made  in  a  company  of  ladies,  should  be  formulated  with  all 
possible  precision;  otherwise  it  isn't  an  indictment,  but  an 
empty  calumny,  unworthy  of  decent  people. 

I  am  an  old  man,  and  have  served  for  the  last  thirty  years ; 
but  I  don't  see  any  sign  either  of  degeneracy  or  the  lack  of 
ideals.  I  don't  find  it  any  worse  now  than  before.  My 


228  ROTHSCHILD'S  FIDDLE 

porter,  Nikolay,  whose  experience  in  this  case  has  its  value, 
says  that  students  nowadays  are  neither  better  nor  worse 
than  their  predecessors. 

If  I  were  asked  what  was  the  thing  I  did  not  like  about 
my  present  pupils,  I  wouldn't  say  offhand  or  answer  at  length, 
but  with  a  certain  precision.  I  know  their  defects  and  there's 
no  need  for  me  to  take  refuge  in  a  mist  of  commonplaces. 
I  don't  like  the  way  they  smoke,  and  drink  spirits,  and  marry 
late;  or  the  way  they  are  careless  and  indifferent  to  the  point 
of  allowing  students  to  go  hungry  in  their  midst,  and  not 
paying  their  debts  into  "The  Students'  Aid  Society."  They 
are  ignorant  of  modern  languages  and  express  themselves 
incorrectly  in  Russian.  Only  yesterday  my  colleague,  the 
hygienist,  complained  to  me  that  he  had  to  lecture  twice 
as  often  because  of  their  incompetent  knowledge  of  physics 
and  their  complete  ignorance  of  meteorology.  They  are  read 
ily  influenced  by  the  most  modern  writers,  and  some  of 
those  not  the  best,  but  they  are  absolutely  indifferent  to 
classics  like  Shakespeare,  Marcus  Aurelius,  Epictetus  and 
Pascal;  and  their  worldly  unpractically  shows  itself  mostly 
in  their  inability  to  distinguish  between  great  and  small. 
They  solve  all  difficult  questions  which  have  a  more  or  less 
social  character  (emigration,  for  instance)  by  getting  up 
subscriptions,  but  not  by  the  method  of  scientific  investi 
gation  and  experiment,  though  this  is  at  ftieir  full  disposal, 
and,  above  all,  corresponds  to  their  vocation.  They  readily 
become  house-doctors,  assistant  house-doctors,  clinical  assis 
tants,  or  consulting  doctors,  and  they  are  prepared  to  keep 
these  positions  until  they  are  forty,  though  independence,  a 
sense  of  freedom,  and  personal  initiative  are  quite  as  neces 
sary  in  science,  as,  for  instance,  in  art  or  commerce.  I  have 
pupils  and  listeners,  but  I  have  no  helpers  or  successors. 
Therefore  I  love  them  and  am  concerned  for  them,  but  I'm 
not  proud  of  them  .  .  .  and  so  on. 

However  great  the  number  of  such  defects  may  be,  it's 
only  in  a  cowardly  and  timid  person  that  they  give  rise  to 
pessimism  and  distraction.  All  of  them  are  by  nature  acci- 


A  TIRESOME  STORY  229 

dental  and  transitory,  and  are  completely  dependent  on  the 
conditions  of  life.  Ten  years  will  be  enough  for  them  to 
disappear  or  give  place  to  new  and  different  defects,  which 
are  quite  indispensable,  but  will  in  their  turn  give  the  timid 
a  fright.  Students'  shortcomings  often  annoy  me,  but  the 
annoyance  is  nothing  in  comparison  with  the  joy  I  have 
had  these  thirty  years  in  speaking  with  my  pupils,  lecturing 
to  them,  studying  their  relations  and  comparing  them  with 
people  of  a  different  class. 

Mikhail  Fiodorvich  is  a  slanderer.  Katya  listens  and 
neither  of  them  notices  how  deep  is  the  pit  into  which  they 
are  drawn  by  such  an  outwardly  innocuous  recreation  as 
condemning  one's  neighbours.  They  don't  realise  how  a 
simple  conversation  gradually  turns  into  mockery  and  de 
rision,  or  how  they  both  begin  even  to  employ  the  manners 
of  calumny. 

"There  are  some  queer  types  to  be  found,"  says  Mikhail 
Fiodorovich.  "Yesterday  I  went  to  see  our  friend  Yegor 
Pietrovich.  There  I  found  a  student,  one  of  your  medicos, 
a  third-year  man,  I  think.  His  face  .  .  .  rather  in  the  style 
of  Dobroliubov — the  stamp  of  profound  thought  on  his 
brow.  We  began  to  talk.  'My  dear  fellow — an  extraor 
dinary  business.  I've  just  read  that  some  German  or  other — 
can't  remember  his  name — has  extracted  a  new  alkaloid  from 
the  human  brain — idiotine.'  Do  you  know  he  really  believed 
it,  and  produced  an  expression  of  respect  on  his  face,  as 
much  as  to  say,  'See,  what  a  power  we  are/  " 

"The  other  day  I  went  to  the  theatre.  I  sat  down.  Just 
in  front  of  me  in  the  next  row  two  people  were  sitting:  one, 
'one  of  the  chosen,'  evidently  a  law  student,  the  other  a 
whiskery  medico.  The  medico  was  as  drunk  as  a  cobbler. 
Not  an  atom  of  attention  to  the  stage.  Dozing  and  nodding. 
But  the  moment  some  actor  began  to  deliver  a  loud  mono 
logue,  or  just  raised  his  voice,  my  medico  thrills,  digs  his 
neighbour  in  the  ribs.  'What's  he  say?  Something  no— ble?> 
'Noble,'  answers  'the  chosen.'  'Brrravo!'  bawls  the  medico. 
'No — ble.  Bravo.'  You  see  .the  drunken  blockhead  didn't 


230  ROTHSCHILD'S  FIDDLE 

come  to  the  theatre  for  art,  but  for  something  noble.  He 
wants  nobility." 

Katya  listens  and  laughs.  Her  laugh  is  rather  strange. 
She  breathes  out  in  swift,  rhythmic,  and  regular  alternation 
with  her  inward  breathing.  It's  as  though  she  were  playing 
an  accordion.  Of  her  face,  only  her  nostrils  laugh.  My  heart 
fails  me.  I  don't  know  what  to  say.  I  lose  my  temper, 
crimson,  jump  up  from  my  seat  and  cry: 

"Be  quiet,  won't  you?  Why  do  you  sit  here  like  two 
toads,  poisoning  the  air  with  your  breath?  I've  had  enough." 

In  vain  I  wait  for  them  to  stop  their  slanders.  I  prepare 
to  go  home.  And  it's  time,  too.  Past  ten  o'clock. 

"I'll  sit  here  a  little  longer,"  says  Mikhail  Fiodorovich,  "if 
you  give  me  leave,  Ekaterina  Vladimirovna?" 

"You  have  my  leave,"  Katya  answers. 

"Bene.    In  that  case,  order  another  bottle,  please." 

Together  they  escort  me  to  the  hall  with  candles  in  their 
hands.  While  I'm  putting  on  my  overcoat,  Mikhail  Fiodoro 
vich  says: 

"You've  grown  terribly  thin  and  old  lately,  Nikolay 
Stepanych.  What's  the  matter  with  you?  111?" 

"Yes,  a  little." 

"And  he  will  not  look  after  himself,"  Katya  puts  in 
sternly. 

"Why  dpn't  you  look  after  yourself?  How  can  you  go  on 
like  this?  '.God  helps  those  who  help  themselves,  my  dear 
man.  )  Give  my  regards  to  your  family  and  make  my  excuses 
for  rfbt  coming.  One  of  these  days,  before  I  go  abroad,  I'll 
come  to  say  good-bye.  Without  fail.  I'm  off  next'  week." 

I  came  away  from  Katya's  irritated,  frightened  by  the 
talk  about  my  illness  and  discontented  with  myself.  c'And 
why,"  I  ask  myself,  "shouldn't  I  be  attended  by  one  of  my 
colleagues?"  Instantly  I  see  how  my  friend,  after  sounding 
me.  will  go  to  the  window  silently,  think  a  little  while,  turn 
towards  me  and  say,  indifferently,  trying  to  prevent  me  from 
reading  the  truth  in  his  face:  "At  the  moment  I  don't  see 
anything  particular-  bukatill,  cher  confrere,  I  would  advise 


A  TIRESOME  STORY  231 

you  to  break  off  your  work.  ..."  And  that  will  take  my 
last  hope  away. 

Who  doesn't  have  hopes?  Nowadays,  when  I  diagnose 
and  treat  myself,  I  sometimes  hope  that  ignorance  deceives 
me,  that  I  am  mistaken  about  the  albumen  and  sugar  which 
I  find,  as  well  as  about  my  heart,  and  also  about  the  anas- 
area  which  I  have  noticed  twice  in  the  morning.  While  I 
read  over  the  therapeutic  text-books  again  with  the  eagerness 
of  a  hypochondriac,  and  change  the  prescriptions  every  day, 
I  still  believe  that  I  will  come  across  something  hopeful. 
How  trivial  it  all  is! 

Whether  the  sky  is  cloudy  all  over  or  the  moon  and  stars 
are  shining  in  it,  every  time  I  come  back  home  I  look  at  it 
and  think  that  death  will  take  me  soon.  Surely  at  that  mo 
ment  my  thoughts  should  be  as  deep  as  the  sky,  as  bright, 
as  striking  .  .  .  but  no!  I  think  of  myself,  of  my  wife, 
Liza,  Gnekker,  the  students,  people  in  general.  My  thoughts 
are  not  good,  they  are  mean;  I  juggle  with  myself,  and  at 
this  moment  my  attitude  towards  life  can  be  expressed  in  • 
the  words  the  famous  Arakheev  wrote  in  one  of  his  intimate 
letters:  fAll  good  in  the  world  is  inseparably  linked  to  bad, 
and  there  is  always  more  bad  than  good."  Which  means 
that  everything  is  ugly,  there's  nothing  to  live  for,  and  the  * 
sixty-two  years  I  have  lived  out  must  be  counted  as  lost.  I 
surprise  myself  in  these  thoughts  and  try  to  convince  myself 
they  are  accidental  and  temporary  and  not  deeply  rooted  in 
me,  but  I  think  immediately: 

"If  that's  true,  why  am  I  drawn  every  evening  to  those 
two  toads."  And  I  swear  to  myself  never  to  go  to  Katya 
any  more,  though  I  know  I  will  go  to  her  again  to-morrow. 

As  I  pull  my  door  bell  and  go  upstairs,  I  feel  already  that 
I  have  no  family  and  no  desire  to  return  to  it.  It  is  plain 
my  new,  Arakheev  thoughts  are  not  accidental  or  temporary 
in  me,  but  possess  my  whole  being.  With  a  bad  conscience, 
dull,  indolent,  hardty  able  to  move  my  limbs,  as  though  I 
had  a  ten  ton  weight  upon  me,  I  lie  down  in  my  bed  and 
soon  fail  asleep. 

And  then — insomnia. 


332  ROTHSCHILD'S  FIDDLE 


IV 

The  summer  comes  and  life  changes. 

One  fine  morning  Liza  comes  in  to  me  and  says  in  a  joking 
tone: 

"Come,  Your  Excellency.    It's  all  ready." 

They  lead  My  Excellency  into  the  street,  put  me  into  a 
cab  and  drive  me  away.  For  want  of  occupation  I  read  the 
signboards  backwards  as  I  go.  The  word  "Tavern"  becomes 
"Nrevat."  That  would  do  for  a  baron's  name:  Baroness 
Nrevat.  Beyond,  I  drive  across  the  field  by  the  cemetery, 
which  produces  no  impression  upon  me  whatever,  though  I'll 
soon  lie  there.  After  a  two  hours'  drive,  My  Excellency 
is  led  into  the  ground-floor  of  the  bungalow,  and  put  into  a 
small,  lively  room  with  a  light-blue  paper. 

Insomnia  at  night  as  before,  but  I  am  no  more  wakeful 
in  the  morning  and  don't  listen  to  my  wife,  but  lie  in  bed. 
I  don't  sleep,  but  I  am  in  a  sleepy  state,  half-forgetfulness, 
when  you  know  you  are  not  asleep,  but  have  dreams.  I  get 
up  in  the  afternoon,  and  sit  down  at  the  table  by  force  of 
habit,  but  now  1  don't  work  any  more  but  amuse  myself 
with  French  yellow-backs  sent  me  by  Katya.  Of  course  it 
would  be  more  patriotic  to  read  Russian  authors,  but  to  tell 
the  truth  I'm  not  particularly  disposed  to  them.  Leaving 
out  two  or  three  old  ones,  all  the  modern  literature  doesn't 
seem  to  me  to  be  literature  but  a  unique  home  industry 
\vhich  exists  only  to  be  encouraged,  but  the  goods  are  bought 
with  reluctance.  The  best  of  these  home-made  goods  can't 
be  called  remarkable  and  it's  impossible  to  praise  it  sin 
cerely  without  a  saving  "but";  and  the  same  must  be  said 
of  all  the  literary  novelties  I've  read  during  the  last  ten  or 
fifteen  years.  Not  one  remarkable,  and  you  can't  dispense 
with  "but."  They  have  cleverness,  nobility,  and  no  talent; 
talent,  nobility,  and  no  cleverness;  or  finally,  talent,  clever 
ness,  but  no  nobility. 

I  would  not  say  that  French  books  have  talent,  cleverness, 


A  TIRESOME  STORY  233 

and  nobility.  Nor  do  they  satisfy  me.  But  they  are  not 
so  boring  as  the  Russian;  and  it  is  not  rare  to  find  in  them 
the  chief  constituent  of  creative  genius — the  sense  of  per 
sonal  freedom,  which  is  lacking  to  Russian  authors.  I  do  not 
recall  one  single  new  book  in  which  from  the  very  first  page 
the  author  did  not  try  to  tie  himself  up  in  all  manner  of 
conventions  and  contracts  with  his  conscience.  One  is  fright 
ened  to  speak  of  the  naked  body,  another  is  bound  hand  and 
foot  by  psychological  analysis,  a  third  must  have  "a  kindly 
attitude  to  his  fellowmen,"  the  fourth  heaps  up  whole  page* 
with  descriptions  of  nature  on  purpose  to  avoid  any  suspicion 
of  a  tendency.  .  .  .  One  desires  to  be  in  his  books  a  bourj 
geois  at  all  costs,  another  at  all  costs  an  aristocrat.  Deliber 
ation,  cautiousness,  cunning:  but  no  freedom,  no  courage  tc 
write  as  one  likes,  and  therefore  no  creative  genius. 

All  this  refers  to  belles-lettres,  so-called. 

As  for  serious  articles  in  Russian,  on  sociology,  for  in 
stance,  or  art  and  so  forth,  I  don't  read  them,  simply  out  of 
timidity.  For  some  reason  in  my  childhood  and  youth  I  had 
a  fear  of  porters  and  theatre  attendants,  and  this  fear  has 
remained  with  me  up  till  now.  Even  now  I  am  afraid  of 
them.  It  is  said  that  only  that  which  one  cannot  understand 
seems  terrible.  And  indeed  it  is  very  difficult  to  understand 
why  hall-porters  and  theatre  attendants  are  so  pompous  and 
haughty  and  importantly  polite.  When  I  read  serious  ar 
ticles,  I  have  exactly  the  same  indefinable  fear.  Their  jgor- 
jtentous  gravity,  their  playfulness,  like  an  archbishop 'sf  their 
over-familiar  attitude  to  foreign  authors,  their  capacity  for 
talking  dignified  nonsense — "filling  a  vacuum  with  empti 
ness" — it  is  all  inconceivable  to  me  and  terrifying,  and  quite 
unlike  the  modesty  and  the  calm  and  gentlemanly  tone  to 
which  I  am  accustomed  when  reading  our  writers  on  medi 
cine  and  the  natural  sciences.  Not  only  articles ;  I  have  diffi 
culty  also  in  reading  translations  even  when  they  are  edited 
by  serious  Russians.  The  presumptuous  benevolence  of  the 
prefaces,  the  abundance  of  notes  by  the  translator  (which 
prevents  one  from  concentrating),  the  parenthetical  queries 


134  ROTHSCHILD'S  FIDDLE 

and  sics,  which  are  so  liberally  scattered  over  the  book  or 
the  article  by  the  translator — seem  to  me  an  assault  on  the 
author's  person,  as  well  as  on  my  independence  as  a  reader. 

Once  I  was  invited  as  an  expert  to  the  High  Court.  In 
the  interval  one  of  my  fellow-experts  called  my  attention  to 
the  rude  behaviour  of  the  public  prosecutor  to  the  prisoners, 
among  whom  were  two  women  intellectuals.  I  don't  think 
I  exaggerated  at  all  when  I  replied  to  my  colleague  that  he 
was  not  behaving  more  rudely  than  authors  of  serious  articles 
behave  to  one  another.  Indeed  their  behaviour  is  so  rude 
that  one  speaks  of  them  with  bitterness.  They  behave  to 
each  other  or  to  the  writers  whom  they  criticise  either  with 
too  much  deference,  careless  of  their  own  dignity,  or,  on  the 
other  hand,  they  treat  them  much  worse  than  I  have  treated 
Gnekker,  my  future  son-in-law,  in  these  notes  and  thoughts 
of  mine.  Accusations  of  irresponsibility,  of  impure  inten 
tions,  of  any  kind  of  crime  even,  are  the  usual  adornment  of 
serious  articles.  And  this,  as  our  young  medicos  love  to  say 
in  their  little  articles — quite  ultima  ratio.  Such  an  attitude 
must  necessarily  be  reflected  in  the  character  of  the  young 
generation  of  writers,  and  therefore  I'm  not  at  all  surprised 
that  in  the  new  books  which  have  been  added  to  our  belles 
lettres  in  the  last  ten  or  fifteen  years,  the  heroes  drink  a 
great  deal  of  vodka  and  the  heroines  are  not  sufficiently 
chaste. 

I  read  French  books  and  look  out  of  the  window,  which  is 
open — I  see  the  pointed  palings  of  my  little  garden,  two  or 
three  skinny  trees,  and  there,  beyond  the  garden,  the  road, 
fields,  then  a  wide  strip  of  young  pine-forest.  I  often  delight 
in  watching  a  little  boy  and  girl,  both  white-haired  and 
ragged,  climb  on  the  garden  fence  and  laugh  at  my  baldness. 
In  their  shining  little  eyes  I  read,  "Come  out,  thou  baldhead." 
These  are  almost  the  only  people  who  don't  care  a  bit  about 
my  reputation  or  my  title. 

I  don't  have  visitors  every  day  now.  I'll  mention  only  the 
visits  of  Nikolay  and  Piotr  Ignatyevich.  Nikolay  comes  to 
me  usr.aHv  on  holidays,  pretending  to  come  on  business,  but 


A  TIRESOME  STORY  235 

really  to  see  me.  He  is  very  hilarious,  a  thing  which  never 
happens  to  him  in  the  winter. 

"Well,  what  have  you  got  to  say?"  I  ask  him,  coming  out 
into  the  passage. 

"Your  Excellency!"  he  says,  pressing  his  hand  to  his  heart 
and  looking  at  me  with  a  lover's  rapture.  "Your  Excellency! 
So  help  me  God!  God  strike  me  where  I  stand!  Gaudeamus 
igitur  juvenestus." 

And  he  kisses  me  eagerly  on  the  shoulders,  on  my  sleeves, 
and  buttons. 

"Is  everything  all  right  over  there?"  I  ask. 

"Your  Excellency!     I  swear  to  God  .  .  ." 

He  never  stops  swearing,  quite  unnecessarily,  and  I  soon 
get  bored,  and  send  him  to  the  kitchen,  where  they  give  him 
dinner.  Piotr  Ignatyevich  also  comes  on  holidays  specially 
to  visit  me  and  communicate  his  thoughts  to  me.  He  usually 
sits  by  the  table  in  my  room,  modest,  clean,  judicious,  with 
out  daring  to  cross  his  legs  or  lean  his  elbows  on  the  table, 
all  the  while  telling  me  in  a  quiet,  even  voice  what  he  con 
siders  very  piquant  items  of  news  gathered  from  journals 
and  pamphlets. 

These  items  are  all  alike  and  can  be  reduced  to  the  fol 
lowing  type:  A  Frenchman  made  a  discovery.  Another — a 
German — exposed  him  by  showing  that  this  discovery  had 
been  made  as  long  ago  as  1870  by  some  American.  Then  a 
third — also  a  German — outwitted  them  both  by  showing  that 
both  of  them  had  been  confused,  by  taking  sph§rules_  of  air 
under  a  microscope  for  dark  pigment.  Even  when  he  wants 
to  make  me  laugh,  Piotr  Ignatyevich  tells  his  story  at  great 
length,  very  much  as  though  he  were  defending  a  thesis, 
enumerating  his  literary  sources  in  detail,  with  every  effort  to 
avoid  mistakes  in  the  dates,  the  particular  number  of  the 
journal  and  the  names.  Moreover,  he  does  not  say  Petit 
simply  but  inevitably,  Jean  Jacques  Petit.  If  he  happens 
to  stay  to  dinner,  he  will  tell  the  same  sort  of  piquant  stories 
and  drive  all  the  company  to  despondency.  If  Gnekker  and 
Liza  begin  to  speak  of  fugues  and  counter-fugues  in  his 


236  ROTHSCHILD'S  FIDDLE 

presence  he  modestly  lowers  his  eyes,  and  his  face  falls.  He 
is  ashamed  that  such  trivialities  should  be  spoken  of  in  the 
presence  of  such  serious  men  as  him  and  me. 

In  my  present  state  of  mind  five  minutes  are  enough  for 
trim  to  bore  me  as  though  I  had  seen  and  listened  to  him  for 
*  whole  eternity.  I  hate  the  poor  man.  I  wither  away 
beneath  his  quiet,  even  voice  and  his  bookish  language.  His 
stories  make  me  stupid.  ...  He  cherishes  the  kindliest  feel 
ings  towards  me  and  talks  to  me  only  to  give  me  pleasure. 
I  reward  him  by  staring  at  his  face  as  if  I  wanted  to  hypno 
tise  him,  and  thinking  "Go  away.  Go,  go.  ..."  BiT 
-he  is  proof  against  my  mental  suggestion  and  sits,  sits, 
sits.  . 

While  he  sits  with  me  I  cannot  rid  myself  of  the  idea: 
"When  I  die,  it's  quite  possible  that  he  will  be  appointed 
in  my  place."  Then  my  poor  audience  appears  to  me  as 
an  oasis  where  the  stream  has  dried  up,  and  I  am  unkind 
to  Piotr  Ignatyevich,  and  silent  and  morose  as  if  he  were 
guilty  of  such  thoughts  and  not  I  myself.  When  he  begins, 
as  usual,  to  glorify  the  German  scholars,  I  no  longer  jest 
good-naturedly,  but  murmur  sternly: 

"They're  fools,  your  Germans  .  .  ." 

It's  like  the  late  Professor  Nikita  Krylov  when  he  was 
bathing  with  Pirogov  at  Reval.  He  got  angry  with  the 
water,  which  was  very  cold,  and  swore  about  "These  scoun 
drelly  Germans."  I  behave  badly  to  Piotr  Ignatyevich: 
and  it's  only  when  he  is  going  away  and  I  see  through  the 
window  his  grey  hat  disappearing  behind  the  garden  fence 
that  I  want  to  call  him  back  and  say:  "Forgive  me,  my 
dear  fellow." 

The  dinner  goes  yet  more  wearily  than  in  winter.  The 
same  Gnekker,  whom  I  now  hate  and  despise,  dines  with 
me  every  day.  Before,  I  used  to  suffer  his  presence  in 
silence,  but  now  I  say  biting  things  to  him,  which  make  my 
wife  and  Liza  blush.  Carried  away  by  an  evil  feeling,  I 
often  say  things  that  are  merely  foolish,  and  don't  know 
why  I  say  them.  Thus  it  happened  once  that  afte*  bciing 


A  TIRESOME  STORY  237 

at  Gnekker  contemptuously  for  a  long  while,  I  suddenly 
fired  off,  for  no  reason  at  all: 

"Eagles  than  barnyard-fowls  may  lower  bend; 
But  fowls  shall  never  to  the  heav'ns  ascend." 

More's  the  pity  that  the  fowl  Gnekker  shows  himself  more 
clever  than  the  eagle  professor.  Knowing  my  wife  and 
daughter  are  on  his  side  he  maintains  these  tactics.  He 
replies  to  my  shafts  with  a  condescending  silence.  ("The 
old  man's  off  his  head.  .  .  .  What's  the  good  of  talking 
to  him?"),  or  makes  good-humored  fun  of  me.  It  is  amaz 
ing  to  what  depths  of  pettiness  a  man  may  descend.  During 
the  whole  dinner  I  can  dream  how  Gnekker  will  be  shown  • 
to  be  an  adventurer,  how  Liza  and  my  wife  will  realise 
their  mistake,  and  I  will  tease  them — ridiculous  dreams  like  • 
these  at  a  time  when  I  have  one  foot  in  the  grave. 

Now  there  arose  misunderstandings,  of  a  kind  which  I 
formerly  knew  only  by  hearsay.  Though  it  is  painful  I 
will  describe  one  which  occurred  after  dinner  the  other  day 

I  sit  in  my  room  smoking  a  little  pipe.  Enters  my  wife, 
as  usual,  sits  down  and  begins  to  talk.  What  a  good  idea 
it  would  be  to  go  to  Kharkov  now  while  the  weather  ia 
warm  and  there  is  the  time,  and  inquire  what  kind  of  man 
our  Gnekker  is. 

"Very  well.     I'll  go,"  I  agree. 

My  wife  gets  up,  pleased  with  me,  and  walks  to  the  door; 
but  immediately  returns: 

"By-the-bye,  I've  one  more  favour  to  ask.  I  know  you']/ 
be  angry;  but  it's  my  duty  to  warn  you  .  .  .  Forgive  me, 
Nikolay, — but  all  our  neighbours  have  begun  to  talk  about 
the  way  you  go  to  Katya's  continually.  I  don't  deny  that 
she's  clever  and  educated.  It's  pleasant  to  spend  the  time 
with  her.  But  at  your  age  and  in  your  position  it's  rather 
strange  to  find  pleasure  in  her  society.  .  .  .  Besides  she  has 
a  reputation  enough  to.  ..." 

All  my  bood  rushes  instantly  from  my  brain.  My  eyes 
flash  fire.  I  catch  hold  of  my  hair,  and  stamp  and  cry,  i» 
a  voice  that  is  not  mine: 


238  ROTHSCHILD'S  FIDDLE 

"  Leave  me  alone,  leave  me,  leave  me.  ..." 

My  face  is  probably  terrible,  and  my  voice  strange,  for 
my  wife  suddenly  gets  pale  and  calls  aloud,  with  a  despair 
ing  voice,  also  not  her  own.  At  our  cries  rush  in  Liza 
and  Gnekker,  then  Yegor. 

My  feet  grow  numb,  as  though  they  did  not  exist.  I  feel 
that  I  am  falling  into  somebody's  arms.  Then  I  hear  cry 
ing  for  a  little  while  and  sink  into  a  faint  which  lasts  for 
two  or  three  hours. 

Now  for  Katya.  She  comes  to  see  me  before  evening 
every  day,  which  of  course  must  be  noticed  by  my  neighbours 
and  my  friends.  After  a  minute  she  takes  me  with  her  for 
a  drive.  She  has  her  own  horse  and  a  new  buggy  she 
bought  this  summer.  Generally  she  lives  like  a  princess. 
She  has  taken  an  expensive  detached  bungalow  with  a  big 
garden,  and  put  into  it  all  her  town  furniture.  She  has 
two  maids  and  a  coachman.  I  often  ask  her: 

"Katya,  what  will  you  live  on  when  you've  spent  all  your 
father's  money?" 

"We'll  see,  then,"  she  answers. 

"But  this  money  deserves  to  be  treated  more  seriously,  my 
dear.  It  was  earned  by  a  good  man  and  honest  labour." 

"You've  told  me  that  before.     I  know." 

First  we  drive  by  the  field,  then  by  a  young  pine  forest, 
which  you  can  see  from  my  window.  Nature  seems  to  me 
as  beautiful  as  she  used,  although  the  devil  whispers  to  me 
that  all  these  pines  and  firs,  the  birds  and  white  clouds  in 
the  sky  will  not  notice  my  absence  in  three  or  four  months 
when  I  am  dead.  Katya  likes  to  take  the  reins,  and  it 
is  good  that  the  weather  is  fine  and  I  am  sitting  by  her 
side.  She  is  in  a  happy  mood,  and  does  not  say  bitter 
things. 

"You're  a  very  good  man,  Nikolay,"  she  says.     "You  are 
a  rare  bird.     There's  no  actor  who  could  play  your  part. -. 
Mine  or  Mikhail's,  for  instance — even  a  bad  actor  could 
manage,  but  yours — there's  nobody.     I  envy  you,  envy  you 
terribly!     What  am  I?     What?" 


A  TIRESOME  STORY  239 

She  thinks  for  a  moment,  and  asks: 

"I'm  a  negative  phenomenon,  am  I  not?" 

"Yes,"  I  answer. 

"H'm  .  .  .  what's  to  be  done  then?" 

What  answer  can  I  give?  It's  easy  to  say  "Work,"  01 
"Give  your  property  to  the  poor,"  or  "Know  yourself,"  and 
because  it's  so  easy  to  say  this  I  don't  know  what  to  answer. 

My  therapeutist  colleagues,  when  teaching  methods  of 
cure,  advise  one  "to  individualise  each  particular  case." 
This  advice  must  be  followed  in  order  to  convince  one's 
self  that  the  remedies  recommended  in  the  text-books  as 
the  best  and  most  thoroughly  suitable  as  a  general  rule, 
are  quite  unsuitable  in  particular  cases.  It  applies  to 
moral  affections  as  well. 

But  I  must  answer  something.     So  I  say: 

"You've  too  much  time  on  your  hands,  my  dear.  You 
must  take  up  something.  ...  In  fact,  why  shouldn't  you 
go  on  the  stage  again,  if  you  have  a  vocation." 

"I  can't." 

"You  have  the  manner  and  tone  of  a  victim.     I  don't  like 
it,  my  dear.    You  have  yourself  to  blame.     Remember,  you 
began  by  getting  angry  with  people  and  things  in  general; 
but  you  never  did  anything  to  improve  either  of  them.^    > 
You  didn't  put  up  a  struggle  against  the  evil.     You  got  tired.  ^ 
You're  not  a  victim  of  the  struggle  but  of  your  own  weak 
ness.     Certainly  you  were  young  then  and  inexperienced. 
But  now  everything  can  be  different.     Come  on,  be  an 
actress.    You  will  work;  you  will  serve  in  the  temple  of 
art.  .  .  ." 

"Don't  be  so  clever,  Nikolay,"  she  interrupts.  "Let's 
agree  once  for  all:  let's  speak  about  actors,  actresses,  writers, 
but  let  us  leave  art  out  of  it.  You're  a  rare  and  excellent 
man.  But  you  don't  understand  enough  about  art  to 
consider  it  truly  sacred.  You  have  no  flair,  no  ear  for  art. 
You've  been  busy  all  your  life,  and  you  never  had  time 
to  acquire  the  flair.  Really  ...  I  don't  love  these  conver 
sations  about  art!"  she  continues  nervously.  "I  don't  love 


240  ROTHSCHILD'S  FIDDLE 

them.     They've  vulgarised  it  enough  already,  thank  you." 

"Who's  vulgarised  it?" 

"They  have  vulgarised  it  by  their  drunkenness,  newspapers 
by  their  over- familiarity,  clever  people  by  philosophy." 

"What's  philosophy  got  to  do  with  it?" 

"A  great  deal.  If  a  man  philosophises,  it  means  he  doesn't 
understand." 

So  that  it  should  not  come  to  bitter  words,  I  hasten  to 
change  the  subject,  and  then  keep  silence  for  a  long  while. 
It's  not  till  we  come  out  of  the  forest  and  drive  towards 
Katya's  bungalow,  I  return  to  the  subject  and  ask: 

"Still,  you  haven't  answered  me  why  you  don't  want  to 
go  on  the  stage?" 

"Really,  it's  cruel,"  she  cries  out,  and  suddenly  blushes 
all  over.  "You  want  me  to  tell  you  the  truth  outright. 
Very  well  if  ...  if  you  will  have  it!  I've  no  talent! 
No  talent  and  .  .  .  much  ambition!  There  you  are!" 

After  this  confession,  she  turns  her  face  away  from  me, 
and  to  hide  the  trembling  of  her  hands,  tugs  at  the  reins. 

As  we  approach  her  bungalow,  from  a  distance  we  see 
Mikhail  already,  walking  about  by  the  gate,  impatiently 
awaiting  us. 

"This  Fiodorovich  again,"  Katya  says  with  annoyance. 
"Please  take  him  away  from  me.  I'm  sick  of  him.  He's 
flat.  .  .  .  Let  him  go  to  the  deuce." 

Mikhail  Fiodorovich  ought  to  have  gone  abroad  long 
ago,  but  he  has  postponed  his  departure  every  week. 
There  have  been  some  changes  in  him  lately.  He's  suddenly 
got  thin,  begun  to  be  affected  by  drink — a  thing  that  never 
happened  to  him  before,  and  his  black  eyebrows  have  begun 
to  get  grey.  When  our  buggy  stops  at  the  gate  he  cannot 
hide  his  joy  and  impatience.  Anxiously  he  helps  Katya 
and  me  from  the  buggy,  hastily  asks  us  questions,  laughs, 
slowly  rubs  his  hands,  and  that  gentle,  prayerful,  pure  some 
thing  that  I  used  to  notice  only  in  his  eyes  is  now  poured 
over  all  his  face.  He  is  happy  and  at  the  same  time  ashamed 
of  his  happiness,  ashamed  of  his  habit  of  coming  to  Katya's 


A  TIRESOME  STORY  141 

every  evening,  and  he  finds  it  necessary  to  give  a  rerson 
for  his  coming,  some  obvious  absurdity,  like:  "I  was  just 
passing  on  business,  and  I  thought  I'd  just  drop  in  for 
a  second." 

All  three  of  us  go  indoors.  First  we  drink  tea,  then  our: 
old  friends,  the  two  packs  of  cards,  appear  on  the  table, 
with  a  big  piece  of  cheese,  some  fruit,  and  a  bottle  of 
Crimean  champagne.  The  subject?  of  conversation  are 
not  new,  but  all  exactly  the  same  as  Jiey  were  in  the  winter. 
The  university,  the  students,  literature,  the  theatre — all  of 
them  come  in  for  it.  The  air  th/ckens  with  slanders,  and 
gmws  mor.  close.  It  is  poisoned  by  the  breath,  not  of  two 
toads  as  in  wintei.  but  now  by  &.11  three.  Besides  the  vel 
vety,  baritone  1& center  and  the  accordion-like  giggle,  the 
maid  who  */aits  ^»on  us  hears  also  the  unpleasant  jarring 
laugh  of  a  musical  :omedy  general:  "He,  he,  he!" 


There  sometimes  come  fearful  nights  with  thunder,  light-   • 
ning,  rain,  and  wind,    which    the   peasants    :all    "sparrow- 
nights."     There   was  one  such  sparrow-night  in   my  own 
personal  life.  .  .  . 

I  wake  after  midnight  and  suddenly  leap  out  of  bed. 
Somehow  it  seems  to  me  that  I  am  going  to  die  immediately. 
I  do  not  know  why,  for  there  is  no  single  sensation  in  my 
body  which  points  to  a  quick  end;  but  a  terror  presses  on 
my  soul  as  though  I  had  suddenly  seen  a  huge,  ill-boding  fire 
in  the  sky. 

I  light  the  lamp  quickly  and  drink  some  water  straight 
out  of  the  decanter.  Then  I  hurry  to  the  window.  The 
weather  is  magnificent.  The  air  smells  of  hay  and  some 
delicious  thing  besides.  I  see  the  spikes  of  my  garden 
fance,  the  sleepy  starveling  trees  by  the  window,  the  road, 
the  dark  strip  of  forest.  There  is  a  calm  and  brilliant  mooj: 
in  the  sky  and  not  a  single  cloud.  Serenitv.  Not  a 


242  ROTHSCHILD'S  FIDDLE 

stirs.     To  me  it  seems  that  everything  is  looking  at  me  and 
^  listening  for  me  to  die. 

Dread  seizes  me.  I  shut  the  window  and  run  to  the  bed. 
I  feel  for  my  pulse.  I  cannot  find  it  in  my  wrist;  I  seek 
it  in  my  temples,  my  chin,  my  hand  again.  They  are  all 
cold  and  slippery  with  sweat.  My  breathing  comes  quicker 
and  quicker;  my  body  trembles,  all  my  bowels  are  stirred, 
and  my  face  and  forehead  feel  as  though  a  cobweb  had  settled 
on  them. 

What  shall  I  do?  Shall  I  call  my  family?  No  use. 
I  do  not  know  what  my  wife  and  Liza  will  do  when  they 
come  in  to  me. 

I  hide  my  head  under  the  pillow,  shut  my  eyes  and  wait, 
wait  .  .  .  My  spine  is  cold.  It  almost  contracts  within 
me.  And  I  feel  that  death  will  approach  me  only  from  be 
hind,  very  quietly. 

"Kivi,  kivi."  A  squeak  sounds  in  the  stillness  of  the 
night.  I  do  not  know  whether  it  is  in  my  heart  or  in  the 
street. 

God,  how  awful!  I  would  drink  some  more  water;  but 
now  I  dread  opening  my  eyes,  and  fear  to  raise  my  head. 
The  terror  is  unaccountable,  animal.  I  cannot  understand 
why  I  am  afraid.  Is  it  because  I  want  to  live,  or  because 
a  new  and  unknown  pain  awaits  me? 

Upstairs,  above  the  ceiling,  a  moan,  then  a  laugh  .  .  . 
I  listen.  A  little  after  steps  sound  on  the  staircase.  Some 
one  hurries  down,  then  up  again.  In  a  minute  steps  sound 
downstairs  again.  Someone  stops  by  my  door  and  listens. 

"Who's  there?"  I  call. 

The  door  opens.  I  open  my  eyes  boldly  and  see  my 
wife.  Her  face  is  pale  •  and  her  eyes  red  with  weeping. 

"You're  not  asleep,  Nicolai  Stepanovich?"  she  asks. 

"What  is  it?" 

"For  God's  sake  go  down  to  Liza.  Something  is  wrong 
with  her." 

•    "Very  well  .  .  .  with  pleasure,"  I   murmur,   very   glad 
ov*n  I  am  not  alone.     "Verv  well  .  .  .  immediately." 
of  hk 


A  TIRESOME  STORY  243 

As  I  follow  my  wife  I  hear  what  she  tells  me,  and  from 
agitation  understand  not  a  word.  Bright  spots  from  her 
candle  dance  over  the  steps  of  the  stairs;  our  long  shadows 
tremble;  my  feet  catch  in  the  skirts  of  my  dressing-gown. 
My  breath  goes,  and  it  seems  to  me  that  someone  is  chasing 
me,  trying  to  seize  my  back.  "I  shall  die  here  on  the  stair 
case,  this  second,"  I  think,  "this  second."  But  we  have 
passed  the  staircase,  the  dark  hall  with  the  Italian  window 
and  we  go  into  Liza's  room.  She  sits  in  bed  in  her  chemise; 
her  bare  legs  hang  down  and  she  moans. 

"Oh,  my  God  ...  oh,  my  God!"  she  murmurs,  half 
shutting  her  eyes  from  our  candles.  "I  can't,  I  can't." 

"Liza,  my  child,"  I  say,  "what's  the  matter?" 

Seeing  me,  she  calls  out  and  falls  on  my  neck. 

"Papa  darling,"  she  sobs.     "Papa  dearest  .  .  .  my  sweet.    . 
I  don't  know  what  it  is  ...  It  hurts." 

She  embraces  me,  kisses  me  and  lisps  endearments  which 
I  heard  her  lisp  when  she  was  still  a  baby. 

"Be  calm,  my  child.  God's  with  you,"  7  say.  "You 
mustn't  cry.  Something  hurts  me  too." 

I  try  to  cover  her  with  the  bedclothes;  my  wife  gives  her 
to  drink;  and  both  of  us  jostle  in  confusion  round  the  bed. 
My  shoulders  push  into  hers,  and  at  that  moment  I  remem 
ber  how  we  used  to  bathe  our  children. 

"But  help  her,  help  her!'1'  my  wife  implores.  "Do  some 
thing!"  And  what  can  I  do?  Nothing.  There  is  some 
weight  on  the  girl's  soul;  but  I  understand  nothing,  know 
nothing  and  can  only  murmur: 

"It's  nothing,  nothing  ...  It  will  pass  .  .  .  Sleep 
sleep." 

As  if  on  purpose  a  dog  suddenly  howls  in  the  yard,  at 
first  low  and  irresolute,  then  aloud,  in  two  voices.  I  never 
put  any  value  on  such  signs  as  dogs'  whining  or  screeching 
owls;  but  now  my  heart  contracts  painfully,  and  I  hasten 
to  explain  the  howling. 

"Nonsense,"  I  think.  "It's  the  influence  of  one  organ 
ism  on  another.  My  great  nervous  strain  was  transmitted 


244  ROTHSCHILD'S  FIDDLE 

to  my  wife,  to  Liza,  and  to  the  dog.  That's  all.  Such 
transmissions  explain  presentiments  and  jDreyisions." 

A  little  later  when  I  return  to  my  room  to  write  a  pre 
scription  for  Liza  I  no  longer  think  that  I  shall  die  soon. 
My  soul  simply  feels  heavy  and  dull,  so  that  I  am  even 
sad  that  I  did  not  die  suddenly.  For  a  long  while  I  stand 
motionless  in  the  middle  of  the  room,  pondering  what  I  shall 
prescribe  for  Liza;  but  the  moans  above  the  ceiling  are  silent 
and  I  decide  not  to  write  a  prescription,  but  stand  there 
still. 

There  is  a  dead  silence,  a  silence,  as  one  man  wrote,  that 
rings  in  one's  ears.  The  time  goes  slowly.  The  bars 
of  moonshine  on  the  window-sill  do  not  move  from  their 
place,  as  though  congealed  .  .  .  The  dawn  is  still  far 
away. 

But  the  garden-gate  creaks;  someone  steals  in,  and  strips 
a  twig  from  the  starvgling^  trees,  and  cautiously  knocks  with 
it  on  my  window. 

"Nikolay  Stepanovich ! "  I  hear  a  whisper.  "Nikolay  Ste- 
panovich!" 

I  open  the  window,  and  I  think  that  I  am  dreaming.  Un 
der  the  window,  close  against  the  wall  stands  a  woman  in  a 
black  dress.  She  is  brightly  lighted  by  the  moon  and  looks 
at  me  with  wide  eyes.  Her  face  is  pale,  stern  and  fantastic 
in  the  moon,  like  marble.  Her  chin  trembles. 

"It  is  I  .  .  ."  she  says,  "I  ...  Katya!" 

In  the  moon  all  women's  eyes  are  big  and  black,  people 
are  taller  and  paler.  Probably  that  is  the  reason  why  I 
did  not  recognise  her  in  the  first  moment. 

"What's  the  matter?" 

"Forgive  me,"  she  says.  "I  suddenly  felt  so  dreary 
...  I  could  not  bear  it.  So  I  came  here.  There's  a  light 
in  your  window  .  .  .  and  I  decided  to  knock  .  .  .  For 
give  me  ...  Ah,  if  you  knew  how  dreary  I  felt!  What 
are  you  doing  now?" 

"Nothing.     Insomnia." 

Her  eyebrows  lift,  her  eyes_shine  with  tears  and  all  her 


A  TIRESOME  STORY  245 

lace  is  illumined  as  with  light,  with  the  familiar,  but  long 
unseen,  look  of  confidence. 

"Nikolay  Stepanovich ! "  she  says  imploringly,  stretching 
out  both  her  hands  to  me.  "Dear,  I  beg  you  ...  I  implore 
.  .  .  If  you  do  not  despise  my  friendship  and  my  respect 
for  you,  then  do  what  I  implore  you." 

"What  is  it?" 

"Take  my  money." 

"What  next?     What's  the  good  of  your  money  to  me?" 

"You  will  go  somewhere  to  be  cured.  You  must  cure 
yourself.  You  will  take  it?  Yes?  Dear  .  .  .  Yes?" 

She  looks  into  my  face  eagerly  and  repeats: 

"Yes?     You  will  take  it?" 

"No,  my  dear,  I  won't  take  it  .  .  .  ",  I  say.  "Thank 
you." 

She  turns  her  back  to  me  and  lowers  her  head.  Probably 
the  tone  of  my  refusal  would  not  allow  any  further  talk  of 
money. 

"Go  home  to  sleep,"  I  say.     "I'll  see  you  to-morrow." 

"It  means,  you  don't  consider  me  your  friend?"  she  asks 
sadly. 

"I  don't  say  that.     But  your  money  is  no  good  to  me." 

"Forgive  me,"  she  says,  lowering  her  voice  by  a  full 
octave.  "I  understand  you.  To  be  obliged  to  a  person 
like  me  ...  a  retired  actress  .  .  .  But  good-bye." 

And  she  walks  away  so  quickly  that  I  have  no  time  even 
to  say  "Good-bye." 

VI 

I  am  in  Kharkov. 

Since  it  would  be  useless  to  fight  against  my  present 
mood,  and  I  have  no  power  to  do  it,  I  made  up  my  mind 
that  the  last  days  of  my  life  shall  be  irreproachable,  on 
the  formal  side.  If  I  am  not  right  with  my  family,  which 
I  certainly  admit,  I  will  try  at  least  to  do  as  it  wishes.  Be 
sides  I  am  lately  become  so  indifferent  that  itls  positively 


246  ROTHSCHILD'S  FIDDLE 

all  the  same  to  me  whether  I  go  to  Kharkov,  or  Paris,  or 
Berdichev. 

I  arrived  here  at  noon  and  put  up  at  a  hotel  not  far  from 
the  cathedral.  The  train  made  me  giddy,  the  draughts 
blew  through  me,  and  now  I  am  sitting  on  the  bed  with 
my  head  in  my  hands  waiting  for  the  tic.  I  ought  to  go 
to  my  professor  friends  to-day,  but  I  have  neither  the  will 
nor  the  strength. 

The  old  hall-porter  comes  in  to  ask  whether  I  have 
brought  my  own  bed-clothes.  I  keep  him  about  five  min 
utes  asking  him  questions  about  Gnekker,  on  whose  ac 
count  I  came  here.  The  porter  happens  to  be  Kharkov-born, 
and  knows  the  town  inside  out;  but  he  doesn't  remember  any 
family  with  the  name  of  Gnekker.  I  inquire  about  the 
estate.  The  answer  is  the  same. 

The  clock  in  the  passage  strikes  one,  .  .  .  two,  .  .  . 
three  .  .  .  The  last  months  of  my  life,  while  I  wait  for 
death,  seem  to  me  far  longer  than  my  whole  life.  Never 
before  could  I  reconcile  myself  to  the  slowness  of  time  as 
I  can  now.  Before,  when  I  had  to  wait  for  a  train  at  the 
station,  or  to  sit  at  an  examination,  a  quarter  of  an  hour 
would  seem  an  eternity.  Now  I  can  sit  motionless  in  bed 
the  whole  night  long,  quite  calmly  thinking  that  there  will 
be  the  same  long,  colourless  night  to-morrow,  and  the  next 
day.  .  .  . 

In  the  passage  the  clock  strikes  five,  six,  seven  ...  It 
grows  dark.  There  is  dull  pain  in  my  cheek — the  begin 
ning  of  the  tic.  To  occupy  myself  with  thoughts,  I  return 
to  my  old  point  'f  view,  when  I  was  not  indifferent,  and 
ask:  Why  do  I,  <*,  iamous  man,  a  privy  councillor,  sit  in 
this  little  room,  on  this  bed  with  a  strange  grey  blanket? 
Why  do  I  look  at  this  cheap  tin  washstand  and  listen  to  the 
wretched  clock  jarring  in  the  passage?  Is  all  this  worthy 
of  my  fame  and  my  high  position  among  people?  And  I 
answer  these  questions  with  a  smile.  My  naivete  seems 
funny  to  me — the  naivete  with  which  as  a  young  man  I 
exaggerated  the  value  of  fame  and  of  the  exclusive  position 


A  TIRESOME  STORY  247 

spoken  with  reverence.  My  portrait  has  appeared  in  "Niva" 
and  in  "The  Universal  Illustration."  I've  even  read  my 
biography  in  a  German  paper,  but  what  of  that?  I  sit 
lonely,  by  myself,  in  a  strange  city,  on  a  strange  bed.  rub 
bing  my  aching  cheek  with  my  palm.  .  .  . 

Family  scandals,  the  hardness  of  creditors,  the  rudeness 
of  railway  men,  the  discomforts  of  the  passport  system,  the 
expensive  and  unwholesome  food  at  the  buffets,  the  general 
coarseness  and  roughness  of  people, — all  this  and  a  great 
deal  more  that  would  take  too  long  to  put  down,  concerns 
me  as  much  as  it  concerns  any  bourgeois  who  is  known  only 
in  his  own  little  street.  Where  is  the  exclusiveness  of  my 
position  then?  We  will  admit  that  I  am  infinitely  famous, 
that  I  am  a  hero  of  whom  my  country  is  proud.  All  the 
newspapers  give  bulletins  of  my  illness,  the  post  is  already 
bringing  in  sympathetic  addresses  from  my  friends,  my  pu 
pils,  and  the  public.  But  all  this  will  not  save  me  from 
dying  in  anguish  on  a  stranger's  bed  in  utter  loneliness.  Of 
course  there  is  no  one  to  blame  for  this.  But  I  must  con 
fess  I  do  not  like  my  popularity.  I  feel  that  it  has  de 
ceived  me. 

At  about  ten  I  fall  asleep,  and,  in  spite  of  the  tic  sleep 
soundly,  and  would  sleep  for  a  long  while  were  I  not 
awakened.  Just  after  one  there  is  a  sudden  knock  at  my 
door. 

"Who's  there?" 

"A  telegram." 

"You  could  have  brought  it  to-morrow,"  I  storm,  as  I 
take  the  telegram  from  the  porter.  "Now  I  shan't  sleep 
again." 

"I'm  sorry.  There  was  a  light  in  your  room.  I  thought 
you  were  not  asleep." 

I  open  the  telegram  and  look  first  at  the  signature- 
my  wif'/'s.     What  does  she  want? 

"Gnekker  married  Liza  secretly  yesterday.     Return." 

I  read  the  telegram.  For  a  long  while  I  am  not  startled. 
Not  Gnekker's  or  Liza's  action  frightens  me,  but  the  indif 


248  ROTHSCHILD'S  FIDDLE 

ference  with  which  I  receive  the  news  of  their  marriage. 
Men  say  that  philosophers  and  true  savants  are  indifferent. 
It  is  untrue.  Indifference  is  the  paralysis  of  the  soul,  pre 
mature  death. 

I  go  to  bed  again  and  begin  to  ponder  with  what  thoughts 
I  can  occupy  myself.  What  on  earth  shall  I  think  of?  I 
seem  to  have  thought  over  everything,  and  now  there  T, 
nothing  powerful  enough  to  rouse  my  thought. 

When  the  day  begins  to  dawn,  I  sit  in  bed  clasping  my 

knees  and,  for  want  of  occupation  I  try  to  know  myself. 

"Know  yourself"  is  good,  useful  advice;   but  it  is  a  pity 

that  the  ancients  did  not  think  of  showing  us  the  way  to 

'/avail  ourselves  of  it. 

Before,  when  I  had  the  desire  to  understand  somebody 
dse,  or  myself,  J  n^eH  not  to  take  into  consideration  actions. 
frhpre.jp  wprythir^T  js  conditional,  but  desires.  Tell  me 
frhat  you  want,  and  I  will  tell  you  what  you  are. 

And  now  I  examine  myself.     What  do  I  want? 

I  want  our  wives,  children,  friends,  and  pupils  to  love 
in  us,  not  the  name  or  the  firm  or  the  label,  but  the  ordin 
ary  human  beings.  What  besides?  I  should  like  to  have 
assistants  and  successors.  What  more?  I  should  like  to 
wake  in  a  hundred  years'  time,  and  take  a  look,  if  only 
with  one  eye,  at  what  has  happened  to  science.  I  should 
like  to  live  ten  years  more.  .  .  .  What  further? 

Nothing  further.  I  think,  think  a  long  while  and  cannot 
make  out  anything  else.  However  much  I  were  to  think, 
wherever  my  thoughts  should  stray,  it  is  clear  to  me  that 
the  chief,  all-important  something  is  lacking  in  my  desires. 
In  my  infatuation  for  science,  my  desire  to  live,  my  sitting 
here  on  a  strange  bed,  my  yearning  to  know  myself,  in  all 
the  thoughts,  feelings,  and  ideas  I  form  about  anything, 
there  is  wanting  the  something  universal  which  could  bind  all 
these  together  in  one  whole.  Each  feeling  and  thought  lives 
detached  in  me,  and  in  all  my  opinions  about  science,  the 
theatre,  literature,  and  my  pupils,  and  in  all  the  little 
pictures  which  my  imagination  paints,  not  even  the  most 


A  TIRESOME  STORY  249 

cunning  analyst  will  discover  what  is  called  the  general  idea 
or  the  god  of  the  living  man. 

And  if  this  is  not  there,  then  nothing  is  there. 

In  poverty  such  as  this  a  serious  infirmity,  fear  cf  death, 
influence"  "oTcircumstances  and  people  would  have  been 
enough  to  overthrow  and  shatter  all  that  I  formerly  consid 
ered  as  my  conception  of  the  world,  and  all  wherein  I  saw 
the  meaning  and  joy  of  my  life.  Therefore,  it  is  nothing 
strange  that  I  have  fa^moA  th*  3^  months  of  my  life 
by  thoughts  «"*  *%1inf[r  nrnrthj  nf  n  r1i"t  r™  a  0<nrntT^qTl7T" 
low  indifferent  and  do  not  notice  the  dawn. 
If  there  is  lacking  in  a  man  that  which  is  higher  and  stronger 
than  all  outside  influences,  then  verily  a  good  cold  in  the 
head  is  enough  to  upset  his  balance  and  to  make  him  see 
each  bird  an  owl  and  hear  a  dog's  whine  in  every  sound; 
and  all  his  pessimism  or  his  optimism  with  their  attendant 
thoughts,  great  and  small,  seem  then  to  be  merely  symptoms 
and  no  more. 

I  am  beaten.  Then  it's  no  good  going  on  thinking,  no 
good  talking.  I  shall  sit  and  wait  in  silence  for  what  will 
come.  JOoi^vf  *3  UJCM  ^  4f#0  * 

In  the  morning  the  porter  brings  me  tea  and  the  local 
paper.  Mechanically  I  read  the  advertisements  on  the 
first  page,  the  leader,  the  extracts  from  newspapers  and 
magazines,  the  local  news  .  .  .  Among  other  things  I  find 
in  the  local  news  an  item  like  this:  "Our  famous  scholar, 
emeritus  professor  Nicolai  Stepanovich,  arrived  in  Kharkov 
yesterday  by  the  express,  and  stayed  at hotel." 

Evidently  big  names  are  created  to  live  detached  from 
those  who  bear  them.  Now  my  name  walks  in  Kharkov 
undisturbed.  In  some  three  months  it  will  shine  as  bright 
as  the  sun  itself,  inscribed  in  letters  of  gold  on  my 
tombstone — at  a  time  when  I  myself  will  be  under  the 
sod  .  .  . 

A  faint  knock  at  the  door.     Somebody  wants  me. 

"Who's  there?     Come  in!" 

The  door  opens.     I  step  back  in  astonishment,  and  hasten 


250  ROTHSCHILD'S  FIDDLE 

to  pull  my  dressing  gown  together.  Before  me  stands 
Katya. 

"How  do  you  do?"  she  says,  panting  from  running  up 
the  stairs.  "You  didn't  expect  me?  I  ...  I've  come 
too." 

She  sits  down  and  continues,  stammering  and  looking 
away  from  me.  "Why  don't  you  say  'Good  morning'?  I 
arrived  too  ...  to-day.  I  found  out  you  were  at  this 
hotel,  and  came  to  see  you." 

"I'm  delighted  to  see  you,"  I  say,  shrugging  my  shoulders. 
"But  Fm  surprised.  You  might  have  dropped  straight  from 
heaven.  What  are  you  doing  here?" 

"I?  ...  I  just  came." 

Silence.  Suddenly  she  gets  up  impetuously  and  comes  over 
to  me. 

"Nikolay  Stepanyich!"  she  says,  growing  pale  and  press 
ing  her  hands  to  her  breast.  "Nikolay  Stepanyich!  I  can't 
go  on  like  this  any  longer.  I  can't.  For  God's  sake  tell 
me  now,  immediately.  What  shall  I  do?  Tell  me,  what 
shall  I  do?" 

"What  can  I  say?     I  am  beaten.     I  can  say  nothing." 

"But  tell  me,  I  implore  you,"  she  continues,  out  of 
breath  and  trembling  all  over  her  body.  "I  swear  to  you, 
I  can't  go  like  this  any  longer.  I  haven't  the  strength." 

She  drops  into  a  chair  and  begins  to  sob.  She  throws 
her  head  back,  wrings  her  hands,  stamps  with  her  feet; 
her  hat  falls  from  her  head  and  dangles  by  its  string,  her 
hair  is  loosened. 

"Help  me,  help,"  she  implores.  "I  can't  bear  it  any 
more." 

She  takes  a  handkerchief  out  of  her  little  travelling  bag 
and  with  it  pulls  out  some  letters  which  fall  from  her  knees 
to  the  floor.  I  pick  them  up  from  the  floor  and  recognise 
Dn  one  of  them  Mikhail  Fiodorovich's  hand- writing,  and 
accidentally  read  part  of  a  word:  "passionat.  .  .  ." 

"There's  nothing  that  I  can  say  to  you,  Katya,"  I  say. 

"Help  me,"  she  sobs,  seizing  my  hand  and  kissing  it. 


A  TIRESOME  STORY  251 

"You're  my  father,  my  only  friend.  You're  wise  and 
learned,  and  you've  lived  long!  You  were  a  teacher.  Tell 
me  what  to  do." 

I  am  bewildered  and  surprised,  stirred  by  her  sobbing, 
and  I  can  hardly  stand  upright. 

"Let's  have  some  breakfast,  Katya,"  I  say  with  a  con 
strained  smile. 

Instantly  I  add  in  a  sinking  voice: 

"I  shall  be  dead  soon,  Katya.  .  .  ." 

"Only  one  word,  only  one  word,"  she  weeps  and  stretches 
out  her  hands  to  me.  "What  shall  I  do?" 

"You're  a  queer  thing,  really  .  .  .",1  murmur.  "I  can't 
understand  it.  Such  a  clever  woman  and  suddenly  — 
weeping.  ..." 

Comes  silence.  Katya  arranges  her  hair,  puts  on  her  hat, 
then  crumples  her  letters  and  stuffs  them  in  her  little  bag, 
all  in  silence  and  unhurried.  Her  face,  her  bosom  and  her 
gloves  are  wet  with  tears,  but  her  expression  is  dry  already, 
stern  ...  I  look  at  ncr  and  am  ashamed  that  I  am  happier 
than  she.  It  was  but  a  little  while  before  my  death,  in  the 
ebb  of  my  life,  that  I  noticed  in  myself  the  absence  of  what 
our  friends  the  philosophers  call  the  general  idea;  but  this 
poor  thing's  soul  has  never  known  and  never  will  know 
all  her  life,  all  her  life. 
tya,  let's  have  breakfast,"  I  say. 

"No,  thank  you,"  she  answers  coldly. 

One  minute  more  passes  in  silence. 

"I  don't  like  Kharkov,"  I  say.  "It's  too  grey.  A  grey 
city." 

"Yes  .  .  .  ugly.  ...  I'm  not  here  for  long.  ...  On  my 
way.  I  leave  to-day." 

"For  where?" 

"For  the  Crimea  ...  I  mean,  the  Caucasus." 

"So.     For  long?" 

"I  don't  know." 

Katya  gets  up  and  gives  me  bei  _iand  witv  a  cold  smile 
looking  away  from  me. 


252  ROTHSCHILD'S  FIDDLE 

I  would  like  to  ask  her:  "That  means  you  won't  be  at 
my  funeral?"  But  she  does  not  look  at  me;  her  hand  is 
cold  and  like  a  stranger's.  I  escort  her  to  the  door  in  silence. 
.  .  .  She  goes  out  of  my  room  and  walks  down  the  long 
passage,  without  looking  back.  She  knows  that  my  eyes 
are  following  her,  and  probably  on  the  landing  she  will  not 
look  back. 

No,  she  did  not  look  back.  The  black  dress  showed  for 
the  last  time,  her  steps  were  stilled.  .  .  .  Goodbye,  my 
treasure! 


THE  END 


MODERN  LIBRARY  OF  THE  WORLDS  BEST  BOOKS 


COMPLETE  LIST  OF  TITLES  IN 

THE    MODERN    LIBRARY 

For  convenience  in  ordering  please  use  number  at  right  of  title 


AUTHOR 
A I  KEN,    CONRAD 

AIKEN,  CONRAD 
ANDERSON,   SHERWOOD 
ANDERSON,   SHERWOOD 
ANDREYEV,   LEONID 

APULEIUS,  LUCIUS 
BALZAC 
BAUDELAIRE 
BEARDSLEY,  AUBREY 
BEEBE,    WILLIAM 
BEERBOHM,  MAX 
BIERCE,  AMBROSE 
BLAKE,   WILLIAM 

BRONTE,   EMILY 

BROWN,  GEORGE  DOUGLAS 

BUTLER,  SAMUEL 
BUTLER,  SAMUEL 
CABELL,  JAMES  BRANCH 
CABELL,  JAMES  BRANCH 
CARPENTER,  EDWARD 
CARROLL,  LEWIS 
CELLINI,  BENVENUTO 

CHEKHOV,  ANTON 
CHESTERTON,  G.  K. 
CRANS,  STEPHEN 
D'ANNUNZIO,  GABRIELE 
D'ANNUNZIO,  GABRIELE 
D'ANNUNZIO,  GABRIELE 
DAUDET,   ALPHONSE 
DEFOE,   DANIEL 
DOSTOYEVSKY 
DOUGLAS,   NORMAN 
DOUGLAS,   NORMAN 
DOWSON,  ERNEST 
DREISER,    THEODORE 


TITLE  AND  NUMBER 

A  Comprehensive  Anthology  of 
American   Verse  101 
Modern  American   Poetry    127 
Poor  White   115 
Winesburg,  Ohio  104 
The  Seven  That  Were  Hanged 

and   the   Red  Laugh   45 
The  Golden  Asse  88 
Short  Stories  40 
Prose  and  Poetry  70 
64  Reproductions  42 
Jungle  Peace  30 
Zulsika  Dobson   1  1  6 
In  the  Midst  of  Life  133 
Poems   91 

Wuthering  Heights  106 
The  House   with   the  Green 

Shutters    129 
Ercwhon  136 
The  Way  of  All  Flesh  13 
Beyond  Life  25 
The  Cream  of  the  Jest   126 
Love's  Coming  of  Age  51 
Alice  in  Wonderland,  etc.   79 
Autobiography  of  Benvenuto 

Cellini  3 

Rothschild's  Fiddle,  etc.  3 1 
Man  Who  Was  Thursday  35 
Men,  Women  and  Boats  102 
Flame  of  Life  65 
The  Child  of  Pleasure  98 
The  Triumph  of  Death   112 
Sapho   85 
Moll  Flanders  122 
Poor   People    10 
Old  Calabria   141 
South  Wind  5 
Poems  and  Prose  74 
Free,  and  Other  Stories  50 


AUTHOR 

DREISER,   THEODORE 
PUMAS,    ALEX  ANDRE 
DUMAS,   ALEXANDRE 
DUNSANY,  LORD 
DUNSANY,  LORD 
ELLIS,  HAVELOCK 
FABRE,   JEAN  HENRI 
FLAUBERT 
FLAUBERT, 
FLAUBERT 
FRANCE,   ANATOLE 
FRANCE,   ANATOLE 
FRANCE,   ANATOLE 
FRANCE,  ANATOLE 
FRANCE,  ANATOLE 
GAUTIER,  THEOPHILE 
GEORGE,  W.   L. 
GILBERT,   W.    S. 
GILBERT,   W.   S. 
GISSING,   GEORGE 
GISSING,  GEORGE 

GONCOURT,  E.  AND  J.  DE 
GORKY,   MAXIM 

DE  GOURMONT,  REMY 
DE  GOURMONT,  REMY 
HARDY,  THOMAS 
HARDY,  THOMAS 
HARDY,  THOMAS 
HAUPTMANN,   G. 

HAWTHORNE,  NATHANIEL 
HEARN,  LAFCADIO 
HECHT,  BEN 
HUDSON,    W.   H. 
HUDSON.   W.    H. 
HUXLEY,    ALDOUS 
IBSEN,    HENRIK 
IBSEN,    HENRIK 

IBSEN,    HENRIK 

JAMES,  HENRY 
JAMES,  WILLIAM- 

JOYCE,    JAMES 


TITLE  AND  NUMBER 

Twelve  Men    148 

Camille  69 

The  Three  Musketeers    143 

A  Dreamer's  Tales  34 

Book  of  Wonder  43 

The  New  Spirit  95 

The  Life  of  the  Caterpillar  107 

Madame  Bovary  28 

Salammbo    118 

Temptation  of  St.  Anthony  92 

Crime  of  Sylvestre  Bonnard  22 

The  Queen  Pedauque  1 1 0 

The  Red  Lily   7 

The  Revolt  of  the  Angels  1 1 

Thais  67 

Mile.  De  Maupin  53 

A  Bed  of  Roses  75 

The  Mikado,  lolanthe,  etc.  26 

Pinafore  and  Other  Plays   113 

New  Grub  Street   125 

Private  Papers  of  Henry 

Ryecroft  46 
Renee  Mauperin  76 
Creatures  That  Once  Were  Men 

and  Other  Stories  48 
A  Night  in  the  Luxembourg   1 20 
A  Virgin  Heart  131 
Jude  the  Obscure   135 
The  Mayor  of  Casterbridge  17 
The  Return  of  the  Native  121 
The  Heretic  of  Soana   149 
The  Scarlet  Letter  93 
Some  Chinese  Ghosts  130 
Erik  Dorn  29 
Green  Mansions  89 
The  Purple  Larm  24, 
A  Virgin  Heart   131 
A  Doll's  House.  Ghosts,  etc.  6 
Hedda  Gabler.  Pillars  of  Society, 
The  Master  Builder  36 

The  Wild  Duck,   Rosmersholm, 
The  League  of  Youth  54 

Daisy  Miller,  etc.   63 

The  Philosophy  of  William 

James  114 
Dubliners  124 


AUTHOR 
JOYCE,    JAMES 

KIPLING,    RUDYARD 
LAWRENCE,  D.  H. 
LAWRENCE,  D.  H. 
LEWISOHN,  LUDWIG 
LOTI,  PIERRE 
MACY,  JOHN 

DE  MAUPASSANT,  GUY 
DE  MAUPASSANT,  GUY 

DE  MAUPASSANT,  GUY 
MELVILLE,   HERMAN 
MEREDITH,  GEORGE 
MEREDITH,  GEORGE 

MEREJKOWSKI,  DMITRI 
MISCELLANEOUS 


MOLIERE 
MOORE,  GEORGE 
MORRISON,  ARTHUR 
NIETZSCHE,  FRIEDRICH 
NIETZSCHE,  FRIEDRICH 

NIETZSCHE,  FRIEDRICH 
NIETZSCHE,  FRIEDRICH 
O'NEILL,  EUGENE 

O'NEILL,  EUGENE 
PATER,  WALTER 
PATER,  WALTER 
PAINE,  THOMAS 
PEPYS,   SAMUEL 
POE,  EDGAR  ALLAN 
PREVOST,  ANTOINE 
PROUST,  MARCEL 


TITLE  AND  NUMBER 

A  Portrait  of  The  Artist  as  a 

Young  Man    145 
Soldiers  Three  71 
The  Rainbow  128 
Sons  and  Lovers   109 
Upstream    123 
Mme.   Chrysantheme  94 
The  Spirit  of  American 

Literature  56 
Love  and  Other  Stories  72 
Mademoiselle  Fifi,  and  Twelve 

Other  Stories  8 
Une  Vie  57 
Moby  Dick    119 
Diana  of  the  Crossways  14 
The  Ordeal  of  Richard  Feverel 

134 
The  Romance  of  Leonardo  da 

Vinci    138 

A  Modern  Book  of  Criticism  8  J 
Best  Ghost  Stories  73 
Best  American  Humorous  Short 

Stories  87 

Best  Russian  Short  Stories  1 8 
Evolution  in  Modern 

Thought  37 
Fourteen  Great  Detective  Storiei 

144 

Outline  of  Psychoanalysis  66 
Plays    78 

Confessions  of  a  Young  Man   1 6 
Tales  of  Mean  Streets   100 
Beyond  Good  and  Evil  20 
Ecce    Homo    and    the    Birth    of 

Tragedy  68 

Genealogy  of  Morals  62 
Thus  Spake  Zarathustra  9 
The  Emperor  Jones  and  Th* 

Straw    146 

Seven  Plays  of  the  Sea  111 
The  Renaissance  86 
Marius  the  Epicurean  90 
Writings   108 
Samuel  Pepys'  Diary  103 
Best  Tales  82 
Manon  Lescaut  85 
Swann's  Way  59 


AUTHOR 

RABELAIS 

RENAN,  ERNEST 

RODIN 

RUSSELL,  BERTRAND 

SALTUS,   EDGAR 
SCHNITZLER,  ARTHUR 
SCHNITZLER,  ARTHUR 
SCHOPENHAUER 

SCHOPENHAUER 
SCHREINER,  OLIVE 

SHAW,   G.   B. 
SPINOZA 

aTERNE,   LAWRENCE 
STRINDBERG,  AUGUST 
SUDERMANN,   HERMANN 
SWINBURNE,   CHARLES 
SYMONDS,  JOHN  A. 
THOMPSON,   FRANCIS 
TOLSTOY,  LEO 
TOLSTOY,  LEO 

TOMLINSON,  H.  M. 
TURGENEV,   IVAN 
rURGENEV,   IVAN 
VAN  LOON,  HENDRIK  W. 
VILLON   FRANCOIS 
VOLTAIRE 
WELLS,  H.  G. 
WHISTLER,  J.   McN. 

WHITMAN,  WALT 
WILDE,  OSCAR 

WILDE,  OSCAR 
WILDE,  OSCAR 
WILDE,  OSCAR 
WILDE,  OSCAR 
WILDE,  OSCAR 

WILSON,  WOODROW 
WOOLF,  VIRGINIA 
YEATS,   W.   B. 
ZOLA,  EMILE         * 


TITLE  AND  NUMBER 

Gargantua  and  Pantagruel  4 
The  Life  of  Jesus  140 
64  Reproductions  41 
Selected  Papers  of  Bertrand 

Russell  137 

The  Imperial  Orgy  139 
Anatol,  Green  Cockatoo,  etc.  32 
Bertha  Garlan  39 
The     Philosophy     of     Schopen 
hauer  52 

Studies^  in  Pessimism  1  2 
The  Story  of  an  African 

Farm  132 

An  Unsocial  Socialist  15 
The  Philosophy  of  Spinoza  60 
Tristram  Shandy   147 
Married  2 
Dame  Care  33 
Poems  23 

The  Life  of  Michelangelo  49 
Complete  Poems  38 
Redemption  and  Other  Plays  77 
The  Death  of  Ivan  Ilyitch  and 

Four  Other  Stories  64 
The  Sea  and  The  Jungle  99 
Fathers  and  Sons  21 
Smoke  80 
Ancient  Man  105 
Poems  58 
Candide  47 
Ann  Veronica  27 
The   Art   of  Whistler  with   32 

Reproductions   150 
Poems  97 
An   Ideal   Husband,    A   Woman 

of  No  Importance  84 
De  Profundis  1 1 7 
Dorian  Gray  1 
Poems  19 

Fairy  Tales,  Poems  in  Prose  61 
Salome,   The  Importance  of 

Being  Earnest,   etc.   83 
Selected  Addresses  and  Papers  55 
Mrs.  Dalloway  96 
Irish  F-iry  and  Folk  Tales  44 
Nana  142 


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